


Prelude

by rushwriter



Category: Underworld (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Horror, Patience Required, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2008-02-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 61
Words: 286,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rushwriter/pseuds/rushwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Budapest 1899. While bartering with Lucian, Tanis comes out on the wrong end of a ruthless deal. Desperate, he barters away the only thing he has left. A love story between Lucian and an unknown woman...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> 27 August 2015: Story is in progress. Original version is still over at FF.net. I plan to update both sites now that the two areas are synched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many years have passed since I started this story. Therefore, in the interest of allowing people to re-skim chapters they've forgotten, I'm going to start trying to include a candid summary of each chapter in the endnotes.

**Chapter I: The Deal**

Twenty miles from Budapest 1899.

_It was a new moon. No guards by the walkway. The monastery filled with silence. The catacombs empty. An involuntary house arrest which had expired long before vampires had grown weary of guarding their weakened charge. Over a dozen candles on the table. Piles and piles of books, scrolls and ink pens carefully laid aside so as to minimize any damage from wax or fire._

Lucian had taken a seat by the window, his right leg carelessly situated above his left knee. He had not changed much in the past four decades. Dressed as a gentleman, he wore a three-piece suit, the fashionably buttoned coat matching the grey waistcoat, the trousers and black tie pitched as a contrast. His hair cut short, the dark locks still hinting at waves, the pointed beard and moustache styling him a man of the times. The only estrangement lay in his eyes, unblinking silver staring across the dusty table. His entire frame draped in the graceful light of the moon. His expression stating that this meeting would end badly if his time was ill-used.  _In many ways, Tanis owed his life to that. Curiosity stemming from the lycan-master's need to comprehend all that lay in his past. Though curt in his approach, he always had an avid interest in history._

"Speak."

_An accent._

Hunkering as if his robes had become part of his skin, the vampire Tanis nodded, masking his curiosity at the lycan-master's intonation.  _England then. The werewolf had settled in England._ Perpetually on edge, he focused his thoughts.  _It had taken much to get Lucian back into his homeland. It would not do to waste his time. Come morning, the lycan would be on the first ship out of Budapest._ He scuttled backwards, his fingers creeping towards his beloved books, pulling one from the top of a pile. Placing it facedown upon the reading stand and paging his way carefully towards the centre. Every page a priceless artefact in his hands, yet in spite of all his care, the vellum cracking near the spine. Warm light causing the ink to flicker, the illustrations leaping as if the dead still wanted to live. As if stung, the vampire halted, backing away from the tome and pointing at the exposed illustration.

"Do you see this book?" Tanis asked, licking his lips and trying to disguise the gravity of the situation. His voice made it sound as if he had come across a treasure. Except there was a mirror across from him. His lie staring him in the face. Bones starting to show in his cheeks. His greenish-hazel eyes darting nervously. He looked as if he had not eaten in months. He looked as if he was hanging on by a thread.

He looked back at the chair.

 _Empty_.

_The lycan had crossed the room already._

Stepping up behind him, Lucian picked up one of the candlesticks and brought it closer to the book. Squinting at the wood engraving printed upon the vellum. The detailed workmanship of an ancient book.  _One which could have been printed through China. In the case of vampire work, engravings were always more expensive than painted illustration._  Ignoring Tanis' scowl, the lycan-master handled the pages with his fingers. Turning them to see what lay before and after, and then once again, allowing the pages to rest. Like the candle, his eyes flickered over the text, consuming the words and committing them to memory. Absorbing the sordid content without comment.

_On the left-hand page, there was a wood-engraved image of a man tied to the ground. Hands and feet bound with chains. His hair black as night. An eye above his body and blood flowing from his chest. A wooden stake through his heart. On the right, a council of twelve robed vampires passing judgement. A set of scales in the hands of their leader. Their faces uncovered and compassionate. As if they were performing a boon rather than an execution._

Tanis observed the lycan's reactions circumspectly, aware that everything hinged on snaring his interest. He had always bartered knowledge in exchange for commodities. Worldly items he could neither afford nor steal…but in the last century, any level of captivation had waned as the information slowed to a trickle. There were only so many books to show the lycan-master. Only so many scraps to throw at the wolves…but  _this_  was not one of the books Lucian had seen.

_He had made sure of that._

"Mmph," Lucian murmured without interest. Shrugging, he turned away from the text and placed the candlestick back upon the table.

Desperate, Tanis plied his trade. "Oh, it is more than that, Lucian. These ancient symbols…this engraving represents…"

"…an executed blood-seer, by the look of it." Lucian interjected quietly, his teeth growing as he spoke, his mellow voice at odds with the razor-sharp look upon his face. "Twelfth-century text judging by the margins. The illustration, however, is painted. Not a  _print_. Original dating from the ninth century. The likely source being a chipped stone rubbing rather than a mosaic. Probably worth a good sum if you could find a buyer."

The bones of Tanis' face tightened by a margin.  _The book had failed. Apparently, he was not the only expert on art history. Perhaps he could still barter. The rest of the book was not a ruse…not entirely. Parts of it were real, but…_

… _bloods, the lycan-master was already moving as if to leave._

_He could not leave. Not yet._

Ignoring danger, Tanis dashed to the open doors, blocking Lucian's path. The mirrors were gone. He could not see his own face, but he knew he must stink of hopelessness. _Not that it had any effect on the damned wolf. Every century only hardened Lucian's heart a little more. The man was cold enough to make Ordogahz ask for warmth._

He twisted his neck, glancing through the wide doors to the outside. He had not left this monastery in two hundred years. Clouds moving towards the new moon. It would rain this night…and there was a stage-coach waiting outside. Four horses. An enormous dark lycan sitting on the carriage box, holding the reins and keeping the horses calm, impassively staring at him as if he were blood-meat. He turned back to Lucian.

_Once the lycan master stepped into that stage-coach, his life would be finished. No one came to the monastery…and he could not leave it. The walls were his solace, the sky his only fear. Must he beg? No, he would not. Begging never got him anywhere. No, he would bargain for his life…food._

_Protection._

He forced himself to say the words. "And what if I was bartering  _more_  than the book?"

"Oh?" Maliciously, Lucian tilted his head, silver eyes squinting in feigned interest. "You mean it comes with a  _dust-jacket_  as well?"

_Ouch._

"No, but…" Again, Tanis licked his lips. He was so hungry. "…y-you remember why they banned the blood-seers?"

"The only reason I  _remember_ ," Lucian answered. "…is because I helped hunt them down." His nails had grown into sharp talons. The face no longer human. A cruel mixture of haggard lines, wolfen features upon a man's skull.  _Death might be a boon, but there was a way out._

The historian felt himself falling to his knees. "And  _now_ …" he cried. "…what would you do if you had one? Where might your war be?" His voice had risen up high, the shrill sound of a ferret trapped in a corner. The dark lycan was behind him. He could not run…but if the man would only listen. "Please…think if you had a blood-seer on your side…"

"There are none left."

_The talons rose…_

"There is  _one_  left!"

_…and paused._

Eyeing the sharp claws of the wolf, an inch from his eyes, Tanis breathed, the shallow sound of panting. He was alive. The talons did not move however. Lucian had merely paused in the act of killing.

"A lie?"

"N-no," Tanis sputtered, shaking his head. "…but she is my creature. My…my find. She will only answer to me, to my words."

" _She?_ " A hint of curiosity in his voice. Barely a hint, but it would do.

"Why do you think she has lasted this long?" He was desperate; he would give every ounce of knowledge for the sake of his life. The claws were almost grazing his eyes.  _A cruel blow if Lucian were to take his eyes. He would not survive then. Protection or not, he needed his eyes._  "Almost unheard of…a female seer. The council hunted men for so long, the seers chose to break their own covenant. Men training women in a time of men. If the deathdealers did it then…why not the seers?"

"And what is to stop me from killing you and simply taking the blood-seer?"

Tanis paled, wanting to back away but frozen in his place. Iron hands holding him from behind. The dark lycan. Somehow, he had not believed Lucian would kill him until he said those words.  _Words spoken so calmly. A decision already made. The question only a courtesy._ Four decades had changed the man more than he'd realised. A darker creature,  _even more ruthless, the beast was getting worse. Harsher. No longer the tender-hearted man he once was._   _No longer the blacksmith learning to read by candlelight. Had Lucian forgotten he had kept their secret? He had aided Sonja. He had helped her in her time of need. Yet this is what her death had done to the lycan-master...the centuries since her death. He was a beast. A werewolf in nature as well as form. He had kept their secret…_

… _and still Lucian was going to kill him._

The historian began to mumble, his words shaking as he tried to talk his way out of death…

"You know, I…I  _remember_  once when we were b-both back at the coven. I could not have been more than…than a hundred. In the courtyard, I was reading to the…the Lady S-Sonja…and you were standing in the stables…" Remorseless, the claws began to grow, creeping forward to his pupils. Unable to bear the sight, Tanis closed his eyes. Praying to whatever gods of intelligence he could think of.  _Intelligence was his strong point, not bravery._

"…and she saw a vampire stabbing a…a h-horse through the neck. The horse had…" His voice was getting hoarse. He breathed, forcing himself to remember the exact details. "…it had thrown Lord Aurelius…and in his anger, he killed the horse." His hands were shaking so much. He could not see the effect his words had, but neither could he bear to open his eyes. The hands on his shoulders were like chains.  _He needed Lucian to remember why he had to show mercy._

He sputtered on. " _You_ …you could not have been more than…fifteen at the time, but Lord Aurelius entered the stables and forced you to bring him the foal of the dead horse. The creature was half-mad with fear, but…" He licked his lips, aware that his entire body had started to shiver. Careful not to shiver forward in case he scratched himself against the talons. "…he made you brand it for his household. And years later, he rode it as his favourite even though he had killed its mother. The Lady Sonja, she...she  _hated_  him for that. Do you...not  _remember?"_

Silence.

He opened his eyes.

Lucian was standing about ten feet away, leaning against the door post. Arms folded and appraising Tanis as if he were a medieval treatise on Latin. The beast had stepped back for the moment. Not a hair out of place, the suit as cleanly pressed as it was the moment he arrived. Except it was starting to rain.

"Fine," the lycan-master said pointedly, stepping back into the house. "…but I will need to see the goods before I barter. Where is she?" He gestured forward, brusque now that he was in the mood for bargaining. The dark lycan let go of Tanis' shoulders.

For a moment, Tanis almost wept. "In the catacombs," he panted, getting to his feet. "Come with me."

_Unnerving the way the man switched his emotions._

_Painfully unnerving._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Tanis, starving and trapped in his monastery, is trying to barter a worthless book to Lucian. The ploy fails, and in the interest of keeping himself breathing, Tanis offers something of more value that could help the lycans wage their war against the coven.
> 
> He offers Lucian a bloodseer.
> 
> Once respected amongst vampires, the last sect of bloodseers was hunted several centuries ago by the order of Viktor. The only reason Lucian is familiar with their existence is because he helped hunt them down during his enslavement. According to Tanis, the only reason this one has survived is because what should have been a 'he' was actually a 'she.'
> 
> Although he is loathe to trust Tanis, Lucian agrees to barter.


	2. The Goods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For skimming, a candid summary of this chapter is in the endnotes.

**Chapter II: The Goods**

" _Come with me_ …"

Hunger in the vampire's voice. Half-stooped, he fled across the room, beckoning for them to follow down a long hallway. Pillars flanking the opening with a pair of stone angels peering at them from above. The ceiling was curved, the stone floor marginally sloped. The old frescoes faded with the faces of holy men and women peeling away with time.

Arms behind his back, Lucian strode after the vampire, keeping him in sight, the shadow of Raze following behind him. As always, he drank in his surroundings, survival instincts giving him the propensity to search for exits and guarded shelter. The relentless thirst for history placing everything in perspective. Through his eyes, the pillars became cover, the angels useful for crushing enemies. The warped stone foundations were collapsible, and degraded frescoes could be broken through. A part of him wanted to look upon the angels a moment longer.

_Only a moment..._

He passed beneath them without breaking his stride.  _He had no time for their devotion. The righteous guardianship they held over this monastery._  Unlike the frescoed architecture behind, the walls here were not so impressive. Empty rooms on either side suggesting that once, the monastery had been occupied by many. Benches within every alcove and more books piled underneath and above. Cobwebs and dust betrayed the years since these rooms had been entered. The years since anyone had last swept the floors.

At the end of the hall, Tanis halted, his rigid shoulders stooping even further, his scent growing in leaps and bounds.  _Agitation and fear._  The expression on his face was a mixture of frustration and cunning, his greenish-yellow eyes darting along a small door as if considering the best method for turning the handle. A few feet away, Lucian only had eyes for the lock. Rusty along the edges, it had not been there the last time he visited the monastery. Never one to hold back from his own inquisitiveness, he stepped around the vampire and tried the handle.

Locked.

He looked at Tanis.

"Open it."

The vampire nodded, reaching a shaky hand into his robes and drawing out a set of mangled, iron keys. Twice, they slipped, but twice, he snatched them before they could hit the ground.  _This was the product of exile, when even the dusty floor became a thief waiting in the dark_. For the sake of business and very little else, Lucian took a step back, giving the man some space. Killing aside, he was aware that one had to show a measure of tolerance when trading.  _Tolerance which did not extend to the other trader's life. Or his eyes._

 _Perhaps his thoughts showed upon his face_ …

For Tanis, looking up, suddenly backed against the door as though he had just seen new reason to turning tail and running. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Swallowing, he turned around, splaying the keys across his palm, searching for the right one.  _Searching_. There were only six keys on the ring, yet he examined each one thoroughly, rattling it long and well in the lock before moving on. When they came to the last, he hesitated, licking his lips. Slow, he held the key up in the shadows and then even  _slower_ , placed it in the rusty lock.

Lucian remained silent, folding his arms and waiting for the man to turn the key. He was almost intrigued by this impressive display of dawdling.  _Not many people could take five minutes to open a door. There was something very personal behind it. Something Tanis desperately did not want him to see._  Again, the vampire turned, opening his mouth to speak. A small growl from Raze shut him up.  _If one thing could be said of the lycan, he had an eye for punctuality. Their ship would be leaving with dawn, and the two hours until sunrise said that if Tanis did not open the door in the next five seconds, Raze would be breaking it down._

The vampire had no choice. He bent towards to the door. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key, slowly pushed the door open…

…and without waiting,  _dashed_  into the room, his legs gearing for the wall that faced them.

Lucian reacted, his nails sinking into Tanis' shoulder, forcing the vampire to halt. It was the sound of a creeping whimper, the touch of grasping fingers. He was aware of these things, yet he ignored everything else, his eyes snared by the facing wall…by what  _hung_  on the facing wall. He knew he had stopped breathing. Making no sound, he took a step forward, the vampire's shoulder coming with him. In the corner of his eye, Raze fell back, keeping his head down. Perhaps sensing the change. Perhaps recalling what happened the last time he saw  _that_.

It was the hidden entrance to the catacombs.

He knew that well enough, yet the last time they had been here, the entrance had been obscured by a bookshelf. An ungainly thing fashioned of oak and iron. Forty years on, the shelf had been shoved to the right. Chopped into bits and pieces for the sake of firewood, its successor wavering from the ceiling, covering the entrance with mere cloth. Captivating his eyes even as he wanted to burn it. He had assumed Tanis had burned it. An old moth-eaten tapestry, ten feet high and six feet across, the fabric dragging on the floor. It was as if the world had stilled. Silence through the monastery, the angels in the hallway hoping for the creeping vampire in their midst to meet his end.

Feeling defensive, Lucian tore his gaze away.  _No wonder Tanis dawdled. In all his cunning stratagems, he never dreamed he would be trading anything from the catacombs…_  Restless, his eyes darted around the room, growing evermore reluctant to look back upon the tapestry. There was a bed on the left, wooden slats with no bedding. A broken chair and a secretaire covered in dust. A few books on the floor. The air was musty, a rank smell…a faint draft of cold air coming from the entrance. He wanted to rip out the vampire's throat, but he forced himself into a state of calm.  _He would have to look at it sometime._ His talons withdrew, the vampire falling to a heap on the ground, a shallow cry followed by an attempt to back away. The sound of blood dripping from his fingers.

 _What is done is done_.

"Find a torch," he ordered, his second instinct to be alone. The vampire swallowed air and scuttled back towards the outer hall. Raze followed, the sound of the door closing behind them. His scent was one of absolute deference. There was a faint clatter followed by a whining bleat before that too fell into silence.

Dangerously calm, Lucian closed his eyes for a moment…and then focused upon the old tapestry, the faded threads trailing from corner to corner. His gaze wove its way into the centre. Stepping closer, he breathed in the dust, searching for the rage that gripped him the last time he stood in front of it.  _Almost forty years ago, in all his confidence, Tanis had made the mistake of trying to sell it to him. He still remembered the shock of seeing it in the dining hall. All business ending between them. Perhaps he had been rash._ Knowing what he would find, he looked up from the centre. At the very top, a line of faded Latin described the imagery:  _Coronation of Amelia—_ …the rest of the words obscured by grime…

…but his memory could fill in the rest.

_Coronation of Amelia..._

… _flanked by two ladies-in-waiting. 1232 Anno Mundi._

His gaze moved through the embellishments and forestry. The stone walls of a fortress. In its centre, an entourage of eight warriors bowed before three embroidered ladies. The first, a pale long-haired woman of the Orient, the second a dark and graceful queen garbed in silver. Of the third lady, there was no more. Only a tangle of thread, a hole where the tapestry had been scratched through by claws. His hand reached forward, perfectly still, almost lingering over the gaping tear. There was no rage. No regret. Only emptiness.

The tentative sound of a knock came from behind.

" _Enter_ ," he growled, the dull colours leaping into bright existence with the entrance of flame. Golden threads. Even with the dust of seven centuries, the golden threads shone as brightly as the sun. The rage returned. His nails sharpened into talons, a harsh, cracking sound, his bones lengthening in a split second. Tanis' eyes widened, legs backing away only to collide with the solid rock that was Raze.

Scowling, Lucian twisted his nails into the hole, tearing deeper into the absent lady, yanking the tapestry from its hanging.  _A tapestry his wife had worked upon._  It crumpled to the ground, revealing the dark corridor behind. Turning to face the two men watching him, he narrowed his eyes… "Do you plan on trading before or  _after_  the sun rises?"

There was no answer. Tanis scuttled into the darkness, his torch throwing light upon the cracks. In under five seconds, his thin silhouette sprinted down the corridor and with the same chain of keys, opened the door at its end, revealing a stone staircase. Without pause, he scarpered down its steps, leaving them behind. A hint of shivering light was the only suggestion that he waited below.

 _Interesting_ , thought Lucian, looking on some trace of bitter humour.  _Somehow vampires always assumed there was a threat involved whenever anyone mentioned the sun._ He glanced back at Raze, silently commanding him to stay, at times weary of his subordinate's penchant for guarding his back. The scent of wariness rose by a margin, but nodding once, the lycan turned away. The horses would need checking, particularly with the rain. Even before the door had closed, Lucian was heading down the corridor, his eyes continuing to shine silver as he eyed the footsteps ahead of him. The floor was covered in a thick layer of dust…completely untouched save for Tanis' footprints going backwards and forwards. Either this bloodseer was a ruse or she had not left the catacombs in a very long time.

Smelling something rank, he began to descend, relaxed in his stance, stalking as if he had all the time in the world. He knew the monastery layout. The original catacombs were a simple affair forming a cross facing north. Nowhere for Tanis to run. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the air became freezing, the tasteless smell of death touching his nose. The stone walls were covered in mildew and slime. Skulls beneath his feet, skeletons lying in slots, bones fallen to the ground. Every item of value had been stripped from the dead occupants.

He looked to the right. In the distance, the torch flickered, the silhouette of Tanis walking ahead, the stones getting more jagged, the smell growing more prominent. On his guard, he followed the vampire, his ears pricked for sounds, his eyes and instinct looking for tracks in the dirt. Again, there was only one pair of footprints moving back and forth. Tiny bones along the edges of the passageway. Every twelve paces, there was a square hole in the wall, the dark tunnel-offshoots providing enough height for a lycan to run on all fours. Familiar with these escape routes, he glanced into every one as he passed. All the exits had been blocked up, but they could still harbour an ambush. Almost tranquil, his nails began to grow. He was starting to doubt the existence of this woman. As if Tanis could hear him, the vampire stopped in front of one the square holes. Bones littered around the entrance, the skeleton of a fallen monk lying against the side.

" _There_ …"

His voice was a feverish whine, his hand pointing into the tunnel, beyond the skull and bones. Relieving him of the torch, Lucian stepped forward and crouched by the hole. His eyes, cold and merciless, taking in every detail as he brought the torch closer. Every surface and texture twisted into the light, the unforgiving pallor of sharp desperation.

_He felt no pity…_

… _yet he could only guess at how long she'd been there._

Pale and scrawny, she sat at the end of the tunnel intersection, arms curled around her knees, the skin scratched and bruised. Though she was shivering, every trace of warmth had been shoved back. A grey shawl scrunched on the ground, flea-infested blankets piled by the entrance. Only a thin shift hung from her shoulders, the grimy material torn along the edges. Except for the shivering, he might have wagered she was dead.

She had become a flesh-eaten vampire mingling with the forgotten bones of a monastery. Gaunt bones in her neck, the cheeks hollow and strained. Dirt scrubbed across her withered skin. All the hair fallen out, so it was not hard to see the shape of her face. Like a bird of prey, though anaemia had prematurely aged her. For all he knew, she could be no more than twenty and four; _y_ et starved, she had forced herself into a false form of aging hibernation. A defence-mechanism which held more peril for the fact that its abuser was half-awake…

Unexpectedly, she looked up.

A pair of icy blue eyes glowing in the darkness before him. Violent and deadly, the colour of the sea caught in each iris. Jaws widening slowly, almost painfully, she found strength enough to bare her teeth at him. The sharp hiss of an ancient sea-hawk rising against the wind. Hatred in her gaze…the hostility crumpling beneath a shallow moan. She could not speak even if she wanted to. She could not hear. The blue eyes were gone, closed, her breathing strained. She was conserving her energy.

"How long has she been like this?" Keeping his eyes on the blood-seer, Lucian directed his words to Tanis. The historian had backed away as if afraid of being thrashed.  _There was no need to fear_ …he was not angry. Merely curious.

"Only a few weeks," the man said, the sound of a lie on his tongue.

"How long," Lucian asked again, his quiet tone becoming colder than ice. The blood-seer had been starved here longer than weeks. Longer than years. He studied the damage. Bite marks along both her wrists, the wounds showing where Tanis found some of his meals these days. Several decaying rats showed the source of hers…the same stench emanating from beneath the blankets. Her toenails were black and swollen. Her body healing at the rate of a human by this point.

_For the second time this night, Tanis had tried to sell him flawed goods. They could still fix this as long as she could be woken from the half-sleep._

"I…I tried to care for her, but…she was…sometimes she…" Tanis had taken a step back, but by some foolish resolve, tried to regain his footing… "Only a month, I swear…"

A wolf uncurling itself, Lucian dragged the historian forward and into his face. The words gritting from his tongue, silver slits for eyes as he made himself perfectly clear… "Believe me,  _Tanis_ …" he growled softly, tightening his grip before the man could bolt. "…I do not care if you have mistreated a vampire. All I am asking for is the duration. Can you  _comprehend_  that?"

At the point of yelping, the scrawny historian nodded fervently. "Yes," he added for good measure.

" _Excellent…_ " He did not release his grip. "…now how long?"

"I…I don't always…keep track of the exact date or time…but it was…she was…apparently on the pier. Raving lunatic. Calling for me by  _name_. If the vampires thought I had left the monastery, I could have been…" The torch shifted closer into the vampire's face and immediately, he skipped forward in his story. "…and then, Josef found her before any of the deathdealers caught wind. Some foreign coven already banished her, burned the mark in her side. He said he was doing me a favour. He brought her  _here_ , but she wouldn't stop screaming all the time. I…I can't work unless there is complete…"

"What  _year?_ "

"1881."

"The devil you did." The curse fell without thought, some remnant of his past self still disgusted by the concept. Eighteen years spent starving in this tomb…but at least the woman had not passed the mark. They could bring her out of hibernation. The damage might even be reversible. He glanced back into the dark hole. Her eyes had opened again. The tilted blue of a seahawk watching him from the darkness.

_A vampire._

"I expect you don't know this," he murmured, not even realising why he spoke to her. "…but you are  _very_ lucky." He released the historian's robes and shoved him back towards the hole, the flames from the torch causing the vampire to flinch. Turning away, he let his words echo behind him…"Bring her upstairs. There is work to be done."

A hungry leer must have crept onto the historian's face, the weedy voice whistling out from the hole, almost singing with enthusiasm. "I assume this means we're going into…"

Immediately, Lucian twisted back around, his teeth glinting sharp as he cut the man off. "We do  _business_  when she's back on her feet. Until then…" He paused, letting his eyes glow silver through the catacombs. "…I'm going to be  _kind_  and allow her to drink your blood until there is time to hunt in the morning." The thought couldn't help but make him smile. "I'm  _sure_  she would do the same for you."

_He did not have to see Tanis' face to know the man had blanched._

Without another word, Lucian stalked back along the catacombs, taking the light with him and leaving the historian in the darkness. By the time he reached the staircase, he was already calculating how his plans would be affected by this latest outcome. The rescheduling of their departure; rooms for a party of three rather than two. The payment required for something as precious as a blood-seer.

_First, however, they would have to heal her. Wake her from the dangerous half-sleep she had put herself in. For that, they were going to need blood. A lot of it…_

… _and by hell, there had better be a basin upstairs or this was going to get extremely unpleasant._

With that thought, he frowned, his foot halting on the first step, the obvious coming to him with a wave of repugnance. Their bags were already at the docks. His hand trailed to the pristine material of his grey coat, almost regretting his journey here. He had  _liked_  this suit. Removing the outer coat, Lucian began to ascend the staircase…

_At least Raze would be in good spirits. The lycan had been eyeing the forests for days. Finally, he would get to hound himself a deer or two._

_Perhaps three._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Lucian follows Tanis down into the catacombs of the monastery. Prior to descending the staircase, he sees an old, moth-eaten tapestry that darkens his mood. In the catacombs, Tanis shows Lucian where the bloodseer lingers.
> 
> Only there is a catch.
> 
> The bloodseer is in a half-sleep. A dangerous form of hibernation brought on by only the most dire of circumstances. Her skin is withered and her hair has fallen out. She is starved with only rats to sate her thirst. Able to crawl among the dead, her mind is asleep, and she is unaware of herself.
> 
> Lucian decides to perform an awakening. If she survives, he will deal.
> 
> His departure is rescheduled.
> 
> Reference:
> 
> Anno Mundi - Latin for 'in the year of the world. '


	3. The Deer

**Chapter III: The Deer**

_An hour had passed since he had ascended the staircase..._

… _and Raze had still not returned with the deer._

Seated against the monastery door, Lucian was teaching himself a lesson in patience, tapping his left knee maniacally with a knife-handle and fiddling with a golden pocket-watch in his right hand. Almost four minutes had passed since he had last checked the time, an unyielding part of his brain always counting in silence. It was a strange habit, one he had developed over the centuries, so much so that he could not remember a day when he did not count since the death of… _her_. A coping mechanism, a friend had once called it.

_Three minutes and forty seconds._

Lost in thought, he had almost forgotten the blade in his left hand, the watch-case held his attention so much. It was an exquisite piece of workmanship, the front and back engraved with a fearsome hawk, a long golden chain attaching it to the grey coat folded on the floor. Like the coat, he had already laid aside all his gentlemanly attire in preparation for the deer bleeding. His torso was bare, his lower half covered in a pair of ancient leather breeches scrounged up by Tanis. Allowing the watch to hang from the chain, he watched it turn slowly just shy of the sunlight. Always just shy of the sun, for there was no sense in letting it glint for far-off eyes to see.

Catching it in his palm abruptly, he pressed the clasp, eager as the watch opened with a sharp click, reading the time at a glance.  _7:04 am._  The minute hand continued to tick, tick, tick, just shy of the hour. He snapped it shut, allowing his thumb to run over the engraving again. He turned it over, almost gentle as he examined the precise imagery of the golden hunt. The original had been silver, but the watch-maker had been willing to refashion it from scratch after realising how taken Lucian was with the device. Twice he had visited the London shop just to observe it through the glass, and both times the watch-maker had been shocked when he would not touch the piece, not even to try it on.  _Only gold for the wealthy_ , the watch-maker had naïvely joked from behind the counter, writing up the order with wrinkled hands, young enough to be his great-grandson twelve times over.

He clicked the watch open again.

_7:05 am._

_Damn._

_He should have paid the watch-maker to make it go faster. H_ _ow long did it take to find a deer? It was the Hungarian countryside, for bloods' sake. Five steps in the forest and you tripped over a fawn._

Dropping the watch on his coat, he abandoned the knife and now leaned back on his palms, staring intently at the forest edge, scanning for movement. Raze had headed north, and more than likely would return from the same heading. The grounds were empty, the silence complete save for birds. The rain had stopped ages ago. Except for the entrance, all the inside doors were closed against the sun.  _He didn't need to see through walls to know Tanis had already removed his wrist from the bloodseer's teeth by now. No matter…she would get her blood soon enough._

_If Raze ever returned._

Unable to resist, he glanced at the open watch again.

_7:06 am._

_Damn._

He had already prepared as much as could be prepared without the deer, and now there was nothing to do but wait. He hated waiting. There was probably an ancient book to flip through behind him, except he couldn't muster the required patience to focus on a page right now. He had the knives, the rope, the basin, the fire…all he needed was the damn deer. He picked up the knife and began tapping the seconds away, switching the blade from hand to hand.

Another minute passed...

Starting to flip the knife, he spread out on his back, grey eyes focused on the blade, the feel of cold stone pressing against his skin. Originally, he had waited in the dining room with Tanis and the bloodseer, but they proved to be ill company.  _He had merely pointed out that it had been several years since he had skinned anything and immediately, the vampire had started backing away as if he meant to practice. No sense of humour. As for the woman, all she did was lie there acting like a cadaver. Hardly good company._ Tense, he continued to flip the knife...

...and then he smelled it.

_Sharp adrenaline. The scent of sweat and shredded tobacco._

Immediately he sat up, catching the blade in the same movement and staring towards the forest.

 _Finally_ , he thought.

In the distance, the tiny figure of a man loped from the trees, the coveted deer hanging from his shoulders. The grounds were expansive between the forest edge and monastery compound, and yet within moments, Raze stood before him, grunting as he flipped the dead creature from his tall shoulder and onto the monastery step. He was breathing hard, bent over and leaning against the door frame with a hand on one knee, slowly catching his breath. Probably exhausted. They had not slept since the day before, and killing deer without drawing blood was not an easy task when one was tired. Staring up in complete and utter silence, Lucian managed to hold his tongue for almost three seconds…

"You seem winded, Raze…all that  _running_." Unconsciously, his knife began to tap again, his quiet words cutting sharp through the air. "Are you planning to track the next one through its lifetime as well or should I consider this a fluke of nature?"

Raze's scent spiked in answer, his expression tightening into a dark thundercloud. Without so much as a word, the affronted man turned his back and headed for the forest a second time. As he accelerated to a run, his spine began to lengthen, every stride pumping him further and further from his human form.

Watching in stillness, Lucian remained seated until he saw Raze had reached the far end of the grounds, a full-fledged werewolf disappearing among the foliage, water rustling from the leaves in his wake.  _It was just as well. The man would hunt better with his anger fuelling him._  Unfolding, he half-rose from the stone step and then crouched beside the dead animal, running a hand along the fur and briefly examining its condition, his grey eyes darting along its body. Quick and efficient in all of his work. By the markings, it was a purebred fallow hind, mottled with a brown coat. There was no obvious sign of disease, and the creature's neck had been broken so as not to leave a scent trail. Allowing his nails to grow by a slight margin, he began to comb through the soft fur, his fingers moving swiftly across the still form, searching for any sign of lice or parasites. Both could taint the blood, and tainted blood could kill during an awakening. His search found nothing. The body was warm, a healthy creature save for the broken neck.

_Dead within the half hour._

Satisfied, he grasped the deer around its forelegs and hauled it onto his shoulders, the skinning knife still held in his right hand. Turning west, he steadily tramped down an overgrown pathway leading into the underbrush, sharp gravel and twigs pressing into his bare feet, the earth still wet from the rainfall. The fur of the deer nestled against his neck, but even with the small weight, he looked up, sunlight scattering through the tree-tops, forcing him to blink every time his eyes met the sun. The scenery was beyond breathtaking. Along his left side, the solid mountain rose at least three hundred feet through the air, the rocks covered in earth and seedlings growing from a perilous perch. There was a gentle wind smelling of lilac and birch, and already he could feel tiny hairs rising along his forearms, the air carrying a chill which hearkened the approaching cold weather. Every step reminded him of his own existence, a lycan walking alone and alive through nature, only the birds and the rare fox accompanying him in the far-off distance.

Unfortunately, it also reminded him of why Raze had taken so long to find the deer.

_Unless trained, no animal would venture closer with the smell of a vampire infesting the grounds. So many reasons for why he should not have snapped at his subordinate. Yet criticism kept his pack on its feet rather than dead…_

_...as his mentor once said, he must never regret harsh words._

The path came to an abrupt end at a weathered stone archway. Ducking his head for a moment, Lucian stepped beneath the entrance into the remains of an old, uncultivated orchard. Almost two acres of land had once flourished upon these western monastery grounds, the apples and pears long since overrun by birch and alder trees; only the stone well of spring water remained intact. Stepping over roots, he made his way to a heavily shaded birch tree, focusing his attention on a wooden basin lying beneath one of the strongest branches. A length of rope hung directly above the basin, the coarse fibres forming a hangman's noose that wavered in the breeze. He paused, staring at the set-up for a moment.  _Perhaps the word 'basin' was a bit of a stretch._   _It was a trough more suited to watering horses than bathing the undead._

Reaching for the rope, he looped the hind legs of the deer into the noose, allowing the creature to hang vertically. The motion caused it to swing for a moment, but he steadied the animal, his right hand already moving forward with the blade, drawing a quick slice across the main artery. In seconds, gravity did its work, blood flowing smoothly from the deer's back-bone into the wooden vessel. It would be several more minutes before the veins were empty.

Laying the knife down momentarily, he wandered over to the old well and turned the windlass, drawing a wooden bucket from the depths and setting it on the stone ledge. Dipping his hand slickly in the water, he tasted it; freezing cold, the flavour of sharp rocks with a hint of musty earth.  _Still good._  Taking a long swallow, some of the water dribbled down his neck and the cold sent a passing shiver down his back, his teeth drawing back into a quiet grin at the sensation. The notion of standing here, doing what was once a common chore from his past. All it needed was old Janus and a bevy of workers groaning over how many deer they would have to bleed for the morrow's feast. Though he was loath to admit it, he had enjoyed the work at the time and even now, there was a singular satisfaction at being alone with a hands-on task. Striding about the countryside with no thought other than the practical activity at hand.

_The dripping began to slow behind him._

Soon, the flow had staunched completely and wiping his mouth with his forearm, Lucian left the bucket on the ledge again and turned back to the deer, reaching for his knife on the ground. Gently releasing the animal from the noose, he set it backside-down against the grass, edging his knife under the skin, cautious so as not to damage the meat. As he had told Tanis, it had been many years since he had last skinned a deer, but after centuries of doing it for vampires, he could gut this creature in his sleep. Within moments, the organs were laid aside, the chest cavity turned and drained of what little blood remained. All liquid went into the basin before he tackled the meat, his hands already stained red. Almost as a form of meditation, he began to carve through the deer, slicing cuts of venison from the loins, flank, legs, and rump before moving onto the shoulder and arm roasts. Every portion would feed them over the next day. _Slicing and carving_ , the movement of the knife became an action of precision. _Slicing and carving_ , he concentrated, single-mindedly covered in the scent of blood.

In the midst of his work, he was scarcely and yet clearly aware of Raze's steps approaching him from behind. He was aware of every sound, every nuance as the other lycan dropped the second beast at his feet; the cracking sound of a lycan changing his form and awaiting orders. Still carving, Lucian remained silent, but through the corner of his eye, he took note of the antlers, the broken neck of a young stag, its body strong and mirroring the colour of the doe's skin. With the faintest hint of lycan blood in the air, he knew this second prey had not been so easy to catch.

Slicing the last cut of meat from the body, he finally stood, knife in hand, his gaze travelling along the back of the second creature. The young stag that mirrored the dead doe. Apparently Raze had taken his criticism to heart, for the stag was in prime condition. There was enough blood and meat there to feed them for three days on top of the doe.

_A true prize._

His eyes focused the source of the lycan blood scent.

Raze had received the creature's attack from the side, a sharp cut along the lycan's stomach muscle. It was already healing, but thoughtful, Lucian considered the presence of the wound, aware of the silence that suggested Raze was waiting for something.  _Praise. It was praise the lycan wanted. Another reminder of the lifelong responsibilities which no longer held appeal for him. As alpha, he must praise and rebuke the pack as he saw fit. He must keep them in line. He must lead them in their actions…_

_…and Raze had done very well over the past few days. Tired to the bone, the man had outshone himself in the hunt, and made sure they would need only the second deer._

"Well done," Lucian murmured, already turning back to the basin. A strong scent of satisfaction drifted from the other lycan's vicinity, but uncaring, Lucian moved on to other things. They would have to get rid of the first deer carcass to make way for the stag.

"Bury the bones," he ordered, kneeling by the stag and searching for any signs of disease. "…and keep it outside the orchard." If anyone chose to replant this acre within the decade, he'd save them the trouble of digging up a deer skeleton. Raze nodded and began gathering the bloody remains. There ought to be a shovel waiting for him by the stone archway.

Determined to finish within the hour, Lucian hung the stag, making the arterial incision and bleeding it into the same basin. Within ten minutes, he had cut the beast down, laying it on the ground, ready for gutting. To his surprise, just as he was starting the first cut, Raze returned from burying the other deer and crouched by the tree, his hand on the shovel as he waited for more orders.  _Apparently he had chosen to race against time in order to finish everything before Lucian did. He couldn't have buried those bones very deep._  Expressionless, the gargantuan man had begun glancing at the sun, probably gauging how much time had passed since Lucian had started gutting. It was a subtle hint that now it was  _he_  that waited upon Lucian rather than the other way round.  _Perhaps the man had been at his back too long. He seemed to think that a few centuries granted one the right to take liberties with an alpha._  Though of course, he would never go so far as to verbally accuse Lucian of being slow…

_No, Raze was far too subtle for that._

"You know Raze, if you're that keen to see a fast gutting, I could demonstrate on that bleeding wound of yours," Lucian muttered, slicing a bit quicker through the skin.  _He was starting to feel tense. He couldn't stand the feeling of anyone waiting on him. Besides, he was gutting the stag as fast as humanly possible. Faster, being a lycan. Raze looking at the sun was merely…_

_…incitement._

From his position, Raze only stared back at him in passive amusement, the barest hint of a smile demonstrating why he among few could take the full brunt of Lucian's oftentimes prickly nature. As if to underline this fact, without saying a word, Raze again glanced at the sun, except this time, he raised a hand to shade his eyes.

_Oh that was rich._

Now feeling extremely snappish, Lucian swallowed his tongue and concentrated on finishing the second deer. The quicker he finished here, the quicker they could start the Awakening. He sliced, gutted, and removed the organs, placing them aside. Turning the stag over, he proceeded to pour the remaining blood into the basin, bringing the surface level to just over half-full. Yet at this point he hesitated for a split-second…the stag still required carving. His hands were already covered in blood, and there was a sharp knife in his grip. Ten minutes was all he needed to get through the carcass…

_…yet the object of their hunt had been blood, not meat._

_So regardless of how easy it would be to finish the stag off, he had to stick with the plan and do things in order of importance. Raze could finish the carving._

Having made up his mind, he dropped the knife and stalked over to the well, his forearms stained red and his skin smelling of deer carcass. Two buckets were enough to cleanse him of the blood, but the smell would remain for at least another day. Shaking the water from himself, he returned to the birch tree and took a firm grip on one end of the basin. Leaving the shovel, Raze immediately grabbed the other end and waited for his signal.

_Tipping was not an option…_

… _and if it did occur, Tanis would just have to come to terms with his imminent death. There wasn't enough patience in the world to bleed another stock of deer._

Nodding at Raze, Lucian slowly lifted the basin, keeping the blood level and starting to edge backwards. It should only take them a few minutes to get back to the monastery, but these few minutes would be crucial. Craning his neck, he kept both eyes on the path behind him, stepping over roots and rocks, keeping watch on the uneven path. At the rate of a creeping walk, they made their way along the mountain face, stepping as evenly as possible, the blood already starting to slosh against the sides of the basin.

"For bloods' sake, slow down," he muttered, finicky as they finally came in sight of the monastery.  _Almost there._ In moments, they reached the front door, slowly stepping over the threshold, the interior dimly lit by sunlight, the floor remaining cold beneath his bare feet. It was a pity the stones were not more even, but there was little he could change about that. Earlier in the day, he had already shoved most of the books and tables against the walls, doing his best to make room for their path to the back hallway. Still craning his neck, he navigated his way back towards the angels, starting to feel an itch on his back. He could just make out the faint sound of someone scrambling.  _Tanis_. The man had probably sprinted across the dining room, desperate to return his arm to the blood-seer's teeth now that Lucian had returned.

_Only twelve more steps to reach the dining-hall..._

_...and how tiresome it was doing things in harmony._

The lycans passed beneath the angels and immediately Lucian's eyes trailed up, his mind instinctively imagining their gaze upon him. He was starting to get used to their forms. A strange thought what a pair of angels would think over a basin of blood passing beneath their stone forms.

_Five more steps._

He slowly steered the basin to the right, halting at the dining-hall entrance and nodding at Raze to carefully lower the basin as he did. The moment it rested upon the ground, he curved his arm behind his back and found the handle, pushing the door open. A wave of heat hit his torso. Bending over, Lucian resumed his grip on the basin, and Raze took the other end. Watching each others' movements, the two lycans stood and slowly edged backwards, entering the shadowy room chosen for the Awakening.

_So it would begin._


	4. The Awakening

**C** **hapter IV: The Awakening**

_The room felt like a furnace._

A massive oak table stood in the centre, fifteen feet long with seven benches stacked neatly to either side. Originally, there had been eight, but the missing wood crackled like matches, the waves of heat glistening from a colossal fireplace at the far end of the room. As if the fire were not enough, eight candle-stands had been placed sporadically about, the beeswax melting at an alarming rate, the flickering light casting shadows on several books, a 13th century cupboard, and a broom which had been abandoned in a hurry. Careful with their last few steps, Lucian avoided the broom and headed directly for the dining table, nodded at Raze and painstakingly lowered the basin to the floor. As he straightened, he noticed the absence of dust.  _The vampire may have scarpered, but to his credit, he had put himself to good use before leaving_ _ _—_ probably for one of the storage rooms. No point in seeking him out if he did not have the stomach for their task._ _  
_

"Carve the meat, then bury the second carcass," Lucian instructed beneath his breath, his gaze roving intently about the room, searching for the only occupant besides themselves. Only a second to find her, though she was by no means in the same spot in which he had left her. In the shadow of the cupboard, she rested, her body curled away from the fire, frozen in the same position she had been in the catacombs. Spindly arms, the shape of bones showing clearly through the skin. He had seen vampires at their worst before, but even those had been preserved to some extent, their bodies kept in storage and their blood protected.

_A wonder she was not dead._

Beside him, Raze was growling softly, his silver eyes fixed on the blood-seer's face, his teeth edged to the point. Even the man's neck was taut as a lycan fighting the instinct to kill.  _It was an instinct that Lucian had fostered in every pack member, though Raze was by far one of the strongest claimants to his mantra._ For a moment, Lucian closed his eyes, inhaling the razor-sharp scent that had jumped from constant obedience to unyielding vigilance…and then he spoke _.  
_

"Not  _today_ , old friend," he commanded, deep words rolling off his tongue, for once granting Raze that title which spoke of the many centuries between them. Like a quiet touch, the word breaking through the stiffness, dispelling the iron force in the dark lycan's stance. _He could not fault Raze for his reaction._ _It could be difficult, reigning one's temper in the face of the unknown._ As if seeing for the first time, the man blinked and then breathed deeply, the sound of a great creature finding the surface after losing his footing. As if nothing had happened, he turned on his heel for the door, once again focused on his next task, as if the survival of the world were based on completing it.

When the door closed behind him, Lucian relaxed, the tautness of his own frame easing away as if it had never been. If he had been forced to, he would have guarded this latest item of trade _…_ even from a member of his own pack.

And eventually, he  _would_  have to guard it _._ _Once he brought the blood-seer to the home den, he would have to soothe an entire pack. Teach them that tolerance was required for the greater good; t_ _hat there was an advantage to be had from having a bloodseer in their reach._ _For like those before her, this woman could read blood, almost to the point of prediction. She could see the prospect of memories, the likelihood of choices, the path of a life as it might turn out. It was only harsh irony that Viktor had executed them all before they could flee their own fate. The blood of seers spilled as they spilled their secrets._

_The Purge, it was called._

Taking a step towards the fire and warming his hands, he studied her face, tracing a path across the floor with his eyes.  _Though she slept, he was starting to believe Tanis had not moved her. Fleeing warmth, she had dragged herself to the floor, hauling her fragile body as far from the candles, flame, and light as she could get._  The pale skin appearing in even worse condition under the shadows. The rat smell growing with the heat _…_ and for all that she breathed, he was starting to have a very strong aversion to touching her _._

Yet he had dealt with far more disgusting things in his lifetime.  _It was like skinning the deer…a chore that had to be done._  Instead, he found himself checking the position of his knife, making certain the blade would not be in his way. He flexed his fingers, raising his arms above his head and stretching, taking care to loosen any taut muscles in his back.  _This was worse than Tanis. Only a foot away from a vampire, and all he needed to do was pick her up._

 _Except he was dawdling._  Ten seconds later, he had dropped into a crouch, resting his jaw on his fingers and the upside-down V that they formed. In part, he understood what was stalling him.  _How many years since he had touched a vampire woman without breaking her neck in the process? Without stabbing her, gutting her, shoving her into sunlight. Four centuries to be exact. And in theory, this task was far less complicated. All he had to do was pick her up. Think of her as a deer, wrap an arm around her back_ _…_ _and pick her up._

_Surely picking up a woman was easier than killing her?_

A moment passed.

He blinked, realising he had to  _think_  before answering that question.  _Where had his compassion gone? He had once been kind…discerning of those who required care. Surely this woman deserved a measure of sympathy. Eighteen years in the catacombs. Hunted as an exile for only God knew how many centuries before that. It was enough hardship for several lifetimes…_

_Hardship._

_He understood that…_

Feeling as though he had just climbed a second mountain, he bent forward and carefully slipped his left arm around her back, gently taking hold of her legs beneath the knees. The eyes remained closed, the flesh wrinkled around sunken cheeks. Shallow breathing and barely a hint to show she was alive. He began to rise, drawing her up with him, her body weighing less than a child. Less like a woman than a putrid bag of bones. Her head lolled against his shoulder in the midst of her slumber, and abruptly, his jaw tightened, every muscle recoiling, a strong feeling of repugnance washing over him _…_

_Her skin was touching him._

Glad there was no one to see his discomfort, he quickly took the last five steps to the table and awkwardly set her down, gradually removing his right arm from beneath her knees. Like a mummified statue, she remained in her curled position and with care, he lowered her gently to the wood, keeping her spine towards the fire. Almost immediately, she shifted in her sleep, lips parting slightly, her fingers starting to clench.

_Damn._

He froze, a wolf caught in the trap, one hand underneath her back, holding his breath as she settled into the new position. A bead of sweat trailing down his brow, an itch rising along his back…all manner of things tempting him to move, yet he remained motionless, watching and waiting, eager to get this over as quickly as possible. There was a faint sound of rasping as she inhaled again, sleep still gripping her body, her mind unaware of the ceremony he was about to perform…one made all the more wretched for the lack of tubing.  _He did not enjoy being trapped, and like the temptation to move, he now felt a strong, albeit impulsive, urge to just hit her over the head. Anything to make her settle faster_ … _except the blow would likely kill her as well._  The seconds continued to tick by in his head... _four seconds_ … _eight seconds_ … _ten_ …

Finally, she stilled.

Tasting blood, Lucian removed his arm and took a careful step back.  _Normally, he would not be so tender_ … _but her body was in the most decrepit condition. She had to remain sleeping for as long as possible, for every scrap of energy would be needed once the ceremony began._

_He was not so much a monster as to ignore that._

_Or was he?_

In the corner of his eyes, he became aware of the flames. The thought of himself as a monster. Biting and ruthless, unable to quench his own bloodlust.  _After the war began, the Elders had done everything in their power to taint his name. Lucian, the most ruthless keeper of the lycan hoard, the fiendish demon that terrori_ s _ed the masses. The newer generations believed he had always existed in the wild. Those from the older days believed he had gone mad. Rabid. It was an infamous caricature, the smallest of vampire children being aware of his wickedness. His so-called death, and the legend that followed him. The vampire's version of Ivan the Terrible._

Again, the woman shifted and he focused on the back of her skull.  _Whatever lay in her past, she could thank Viktor for the execution of the blood-seers. For that_ … _if she did not wake fully, he would count it as mercy and kill her while she slept. A knife through the back of the head. Quick and painless._

Silently, he drew the skinning knife from his side and stepped forward, cutting through the woman's shift, the tattered cloth parting easily to reveal a mottled spine covered in pale skin. He held a portion of the shift up to the light, studying its texture. The style was generic enough, the cotton fabric appropriate to any number of women. He might have known more of her background if it had been a different fabric. He shifted his attention lower, the light flickering against the dark patch of skin burned into her flank.  _It was the reason he had placed her on the table rather than directly in the basin._  Reaching out, he touched the edge of the mark and then held the skin taut, tracing its outline…

_In direct view of the firelight, it looked as if the brand were only a century old, the flesh seared with ink, the mark gouged and barely faded. Like the lycan version, the shape was circular, almost three inches in diameter with the initial of an elder in the centre. The only obvious difference being the tiny symbol of an open eye in the outer ring, rather than a roman numeral. An open eye that stood for bloodseer._

As for the elder's initial…

_H._

_What did H stand for?_

Disconcerted, he left the brand alone, knowing his questions would have to wait until after the Awakening. Drawing her body up a second time, he gingerly lowered her into the wooden basin where she slumped forward, the frail body barely fitting into the confines, blood pooling around her emaciated legs. The words of a treatise drifting through his mind as he studied the veins in her back…

" _It is said…_

… _one need only commit the first hint of new blood. The vampire will spread it, turning dust into water and waking the heart, rousing the veins and forcing the body into life._ _As the veins heal themselves, the awakened one regains strength and memories. Veins must be 'tempered' along the spine, slowly and precisely given blood over the course of a night. Painful, yet bearable in that the body heals as quickly as it is tempered."_

Behind, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, the handle turning as the smell of a lycan entered the room. _Raze had finished burying the second animal._ Fiercely collected, the man was again staring at the blood-seer with a mixture of hatred and unease _…_ but by his smell, he was ready for what lay ahead.

 _And so it begins,_ thought Lucian, rising from the ground only to kneel by the stone fireplace as if in supplication, the skinning knife already in his right hand. He held the blade out to the flame, the fire eating along the edge, flickering from side to side, disinfecting every trace over burning wood. Entranced, he passed the rest of the treatise through his mind.

As it was written…

_"...only in the case of a half-sleep should the veins then be tempered by hand. The body must be woken by hand. The new blood spread by hand. For those who cannot turn dust to blood, they must have it turned for them."_

_And in order to do that…_

Almost casually, he removed the red-hot blade from the fire.

…  _she would need a shock._

He turned towards the table, carrying the blade before him with care. Immediately, Raze got out of his way, taking a step back. Lucian only had eyes for the blood-seer. Kneeling by the basin, he ran a gentle hand along her spine, the skin dry and unbroken...but that would change soon enough. Lines would run down her back, her arms, her side, her throat. He would make her feel every vein as if it were a stream trying to bear an ocean. As if her body were made of a hundred cords, tightening and twisting until she resembled only muscle.

_Every precise cut would force her to seek after the deers' lifeblood. He would strip every vein from underneath, forcing her to heal it, forcing the process to spread along the spinal and cerebral veins. There would be much pain, but only when he was sure that new blood was mingling with the old, and that her mind had returned in completeness would he halt…_

… _until then, she would simply have to feel the weight of his knife upon her back._

"Hold her down," Lucian murmured quietly to Raze, a  _very_  tiny part of his conscience regretting the pain he was about to inflict on this woman. "…and cover her mouth before she starts screaming."

_She would not thank him for saving her life, but he did not need her gratitude. He would wake her from the sleep, and she would resume her trade for him. The first blood-seer ever to aid the lycan cause…_

_Already he could feel the tides changing._

_o…o_ … _o_

A few doors down, Tanis crouched behind an empty winecask, still nursing the shallow burns he had received while sneaking out of the dining room. If he had his full strength, it would have healed by now. Like the blood-seer, it had been many years since he had fed normally.  _And at least she slept through most of the years_ , he thought bitterly _._   _Or at least half-slept._  He grimaced slightly, thinking of her teeth on his wrist. Her teeth on  _his_  wrist. It wasn't right that Lucian made him feed her. She wouldn't even absorb the blood anyway until…

Abruptly, a muted scream came from the other room.

He stilled, listening, his face paling for a moment as he realised Lucian had begun the Awakening. There was no sound of movement or scuffling. Only the keening of an animal. He remembered that scream. Unable to stand it, Tanis covered his ears and tried to block out the sound. She had to survive the procedure. She had to survive. The moment she died, Lucian would find him and kill him…and if not Lucian, then the hunger.

_She had to survive…please let her survive…_

_…but for what?_

Clutching at his ears, he began to tremble.

_He had sold her to a beast._


	5. Lies and Confession

**Chapter V: Lies and Confession**

_Eight hours later._

The door crashed open.

Tanis squeaked, scuttling back into the corner. Before he could scale the wall, two hands had seized his robes, forcefully hauling him back to the ground. Garbed in only breeches with blood dripping down his chest, Lucian was a fearsome sight to behold, his teeth at a point, the growl rising from the depths of rage.

"You  _lied_  to me, Tanis…" he said, his teeth grinding against the words.

"I…I didn't lie. I…forgot."

"You  _forgot…"_ Lucian repeated in grim condescension, tightening his hold on Tanis' neck. "…rather convenient."

"She…I…I may have got the date wrong." Speaking in a constrained rasp thanks to the neck-hold, he unsuccessfully tried to unwrap the fingers. They tightened.  _Wonderful_.  _It was daylight outside and if the door hadn't shut with its own momentum, he would have been frying._  After another attempt at the fingers, he decided to hang.  _Maybe_   _Lucian would let go of him with the extra weight…though he barely weighed anything anymore_. "Is she…alive?"

"She looks dead, Tanis. Give me a year? An event, a circumstance…"

_Curse it, the man wanted the date again…1878…what happened then? The death of the pope. Raising of Cleopatra's Needle. No, something more obscure. Something Lucian wouldn't remember…how to word it…_

"…the…the fourth battle of Shipka Pass?"

"Shipka Pass…" Lucian muttered, dropping Tanis suddenly, letting the vampire fall with a sharp thump onto the stone. Apparently deep in thought, the lycan bounded onto the old cask in the corner, his legs folding underneath, back against the wall, eyes closed as he worked it out. "Shipka Pass…a dispute. A battle. Sounds like Bulgaria _._  Russia moving against the Ottoman Empire. The Russo-Turkish War in 1877, however, the fourth battle would be the next year. Winter…probably around January... _1878_ , if that sounds right." He opened his eyes, silver staring arrogantly from above. "Which by your face, it does. She's been asleep for two decades…on the mark."

 _It was so_ annoying _when people knew as much as you did._

Glaring up at the lycan master, Tanis reached back to massage the bruise on his tail-bone. Everyone was mishandling him. Burns on his cheek, holes in his robe, bruises on his back. He raised his arms, looking at the sad mess his sleeves were in. He swore, if he ever got out of here, he'd wear silk and velvet for an entire century.  _Though wait a minute…_  He stilled, realising the obvious.  _If the woman was dead, then that meant…_

"Alright," the lycan master said, leaping off the cask. "…I'll give it three days."

"I thought you said she was dead," Tanis sputtered.

"I said she  _looked_  dead," said Lucian, shaking his head in annoyance as if Tanis should keep up. He began to walk around the storage room, apparently exploring...or perhaps searching. There was not much to see. Twelve empty casks. A few old chests. The shelves only had dust on them. Still the lycan master crouched by one of the chests, opening the cover by a crack and peering inside.

"So you woke her?"

"Hmmph?" Frowning, Lucian looked up from the chest. He seemed annoyed by the interruption, but surprisingly conversational considering how bloody he was. "Woke her?...oh  _yes,_ a few complications, but nothing to worry on." His attention returned to the chest, his hand flipping the cover fully open with a loud bang.

"Complications?"

"Yes." Apparently unsatisfied with the contents, the lycan-master had moved onto another chest, flipping that open with a bang as well. Tanis flinched at the sound, his glower taking in the newest dent along the chest cover.  _ _Did he have to do everything with a bang?_  The man was going to break something._

"What…kind of complications?"

Shrugging at the question, Lucian began pulling out tunics, breeches…a few pieces of cloth and a blanket from the chest. "A few… _permanent_ …complications. I've taken the liberty of placing her in your room. Raze already cleaned her up." He scrunched all his finds into a tight bundle and returned to the door.

Tanis nodded, already starting to crouch behind one of the casks.  _He was always happy to see Lucian's back, but there was something to be said for preparing himself for the ray of sunlight that tended to burn his skin every time the man walked through a door._

Except it never came.

Rather than leave, Lucian had stopped at the door, his forehead creasing as though he'd forgotten something. And then he turned ever so slowly on his heel and eyed Tanis with the most astute expression.  _Another one of those cursed moments of deep thought. The man thought too much. Then again, he was sporting grey eyes instead of silver. Perhaps the wolf was taking his ease…  
_

"Why are you afraid of her?"

_…or not._

"What? That's not true…" Tanis spluttered.

"It is." He looked around them and then pointed. "Twice you've told me the wrong date, and now you're hiding in a storage cupboard."

_Bloods._

_Did he have to put it that way?  
_

"I…I'm not hiding…" Trying to force an innocent smile on his face, Tanis licked his lips. "…I'm just…" He changed his tune. "…ashamed. W-when I think of her, I think only of how I failed in my task as a historian. I gave her shelter, I gave her  _food_ …" He emphasised the last word. They all knew how hard it was to sustain oneself let alone a guest. "…but I failed to give her the information she sought. You can imagine the guilt I felt afterwards. I was gone only for a moment when she made her choice." He flicked an eye to the left to see if Lucian was still listening.

The man was examining the door now, his thumb running over several dents in the surface. "And when you say 'choice', you mean…"

"Choice."

"As in unprovoked."

"Oh yes," Tanis nodded emphatically.  _Over the past twenty years, he had started to believe it himself._  "Driven no doubt by despair," he hastened to add, in case Lucian had missed that part. "An act of desperation that I could have prevented. Alas, I could  _barely_  live with myself…the world's oldest living historian with no history to offer. I tell you, it was unbearable."

His face was inscrutable as he turned away from the door. "What was she looking for?" _  
_

Tanis fingered the torn edge of his sleeve. "Just a name," he said, unable to look away from the lycan master's gaze. Almost hypnotic. "Someone called _Áris_." So easy to talk to Lucian. So easy to speak to the first person to visit in twenty years. "She said it was very important to her. She seemed to think I would know where to look, but there was no reference, no trail. We searched for hours and then days, and in the end, I locked her up in the…"

He gaped suddenly, his mouth clapping shut before he could say more. Horror at the words spilling from his tongue.  _He had not spoken of this to anyone. Not in twenty years..._

 _…and why should he feel guilty,_ he thought.  _It was a cruel world. A world of exiles and people who would kill you as soon as look at you. He was weak…a historian. Banished as she was, she would have died anyway. She had been…_

"Go on," said Lucian. Despite clearly wanting to sand something, he'd taken a seat on the stones, his chin resting on his fist, the bundle of clothes forgotten by his side. Strangely enough, he seemed only interested in the tale.  _Not justice or morals or honour._

Tanis swallowed, watching him with some suspicion.  _Perhaps his apathy was real…and though it was absurd confiding in Lucian of all people, it might be a relief to get it off his back. How many years had he carried the guilt?_

" _Food._ " Tanis confessed softly, breaking his gaze with the lycan master. He could almost see them…their faces haunting him like the walls of the monastery. "Before he died, Josef used to bring me food. Livestock, mortals. Other vampires…exiles. Whatever he could get his hands on…and then he came upon this woman. This mysterious woman who actually  _wanted_  to see me."

His eyes darted up to Lucian suddenly, almost pleading with him to understand.  _He had never wanted it to be this way._  "She came of her own free will. She came to  _me_ …she  _wanted_  to be here." Nervous, his hands began to twitch."The coven has no idea what it is to live on the outside. Beyond their stone walls, their farms, perpetual livestock at their fingertips. After you stopped trading…I had to… _survive_."

_For days, she had screamed at the door, slamming her body against every surface, searching for a way out. She had fought against everything…the walls, the doors, the catacombs…against him. He could see her face as if it were yesterday…strange beauty of dark hair and blue eyes, the smooth, high cheekbones. Probably one of the Laplanders from up north._

His throat started to dry.

"But I did…" He was making the hole bigger in his sleeves. "I did  _try_  to help her. For days. And I was starving, but she was…" He coughed. "…her  _question_  was intriguing, so I looked. I searched the histories, the treatises, everything I could find, except I…" Confession was so hard. "I couldn't find anything…and she was stronger than me." He swallowed, wiping his hands together. Dust on his hands mixing with the sweat. "So I told her there was one more book. One more place for us to look for the name, but the moment she entered the room, I locked it. Let her starve." He smiled uneasily, his eyes starting to lose their focus as he stared at nothing. "Let her weaken…"

"Her name?"

Tanis blinked, realising he had drifted.  _His stomach was starting to hurt…what was the question Lucian asked? Oh yes…her name._  "She never gave it. Stuck up piece of work that she was." After all these years, her words still smarted. "I came back in a few days and she was shrivelled. Dust in her veins…"

"I can imagine," Lucian murmured with a sinister smile.

"Well,  _imagine_  when she gets her hands on me," Tanis swallowed, a bit estranged as he discussed his guilt with the lycan master. He laughed nervously. "She'll…not be pleased."

"No…" the lycan master frowned for a moment. "…no, she won't. Though I can promise you this…if our deal goes through, you get food and protection. So of course…we can't let her kill you, can we?" Almost pleasant, the lycan master grabbed the cloth bundle and stood. For once, he gestured to the door, giving Tanis some warning of the sun.

Tanis almost gaped.  _Usually that never happened…it was like a hobby for the man, flinging doors open, shocking vampires into thinking they were about to burn._ Grateful nonetheless, he nodded at the warning, quickly ducked his head and scrambled deeper into the room, covering his face and eyes before the faintest of the sun's rays hit his skin.

Hidden as he was, he felt an elated smile creep upon his face…  _Lucian had spoken as if the deal would probably go through. In exchange for the blood-seer, he would get the two things he had lost in the past forty years. Food, protection…and l_ _ife was finally looking up._ From beyond, he heard the sound of the handle turning and the door swinging open, Lucian's voice drifting across the room with the last rays of the sun… "There's leftover blood in the dining hall. When the sun sets, drink it and set yourself up here."

The door closed softly.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Tanis lowered his hands in wonder.  _Really…when the lycan master was not focused on strangling him, it was remarkable how understanding he could be. But then…it_ was _Lucian. A bit like confiding in a demon_ …  _…which was fine as long as the demon paid._ Grinning like a fox, though some might call him a weasel _,_ he settled himself back against the old cask, folding his arms on his stomach and crossing his legs at the heel.  _Blood in a few hours and the rest of his life in three days._

_All of it under Lucian's protection._

_Comfortable at last._


	6. The Visionary

**Chapter VI: The Visionary**

_Three days later._

_Wind rushed against her palm. Before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour, sails fleeing the pier. She had to flee with them. She had to get out. Darkness would turn into daylight. Hrafn, aid her…blood on her hands, pain burning in her side. Where was the historian? She had to sleep. She had to get away from…fire._

_Fire coating her back and melting her skin. One moment she lay in water, the next, she burned. Searching her lungs for breath, her neck craning against some unseen force, her teeth fighting for purchase. She could not possess it. She could not flee it. An iron hand forcing her to look up, wrenching her neck even further…screaming and looking up into the sun. Not the sun…nor the moon._

_The eyes of the storm._

_Grey eyes._

Feverish, she woke, her skin sweating in the darkness. Pain along her back. Soreness. _She knew of wind. Fleeing something._ _Fleeing a nightmare which had already fled, for the last of her dream had faded…leaving her weak._ Turning her head slowly, she felt a wet cloth fall from her eyes, the darkness unveiling itself as a pool of depth. A room of sorts. Softness beneath her head, her body tucked into the sweltering embrace of a bed. She rested her head back, studying the space around her. The bed she lay in, flanked by the small table on her right. Above, the ceiling covered in faces, an old fresco sweeping across the tilted surface made of stone. Shadows from the past watching her. As if she should know their faces. _What was this place?_ Her memories were…so fleeting.

_She could not remember._

_And why was it so hot?_ Like water that had burned before it could flee with the tide. _Too much heat. She had to move_. Feeble, her arm crept from beneath the bed-covers, the slab of heat representing only a rough blanket. _Her skin felt so odd._ As she shifted, she stretched her fingers out, the movement feeling…sinewy. Forcing herself to sit up gradually, she inched towards the edge of the bed, slow…frail, her hand reaching high to creep along her bare scalp. _No hair._ _No clothes. Why had they shaved her head?_ It felt as if heat would shrivel her to dust if she did not move. Reaching the edge of the bed, she gathered the blanket around her shoulders and made an attempt to stand…

…only to fall, the blanket snagging on the table edge, drawing it over with a…

_Crash!_

Her eyes darted to the door and she froze, the stone floor hot against her skin. _Hot_ , even though her hands were shivering. Her body knew the floor was freezing, but her mind insisted she was burning. Someone must have heard. Dimly, she knew what she was…she knew she had to flee. An outcast from both sides of the… _war_. There was a war going on, and she caught in the middle.

 _There_ …

…the sound of footsteps approaching. Footsteps coming fast from the left, the echo of a hallway, boots clamping on stone. Only a glimmer of light reached beneath the door. The figure behind had halted, listening from outside. So loud next to her ears, she could hear the sound of her own breathing muffled by the blanket… _why did they not open the door?_

_They knew she was awake._

Like a bird trapped in a fox-den, she cowered on the floor, listening as the stranger finally turned, the steps distantly retreating to the left again, taking the light with them. Still she waited, unwilling to move until all was silent. Whoever it was knew she was inside here, but there was a chance she could escape… _how? Her body was weak as a newborn._ She needed strength…she needed to flee. Fight. Drink…

…the smell hit her.

_Blood._

Pressing her hands to the floor, she raised herself to her knees and sat up, still gripping the blanket around her. _It was like…water descending over a cliff, the hunger fell upon her so quickly. A hole where her stomach ought to be._ _She had to find the blood, drifting from beneath the door, tantali_ s _ing her with its presence. The stranger must have known._ On her knees, she crawled at a snail's pace, stopping in front of the door and cautiously reaching for the handle. _The iron might squeak and they would know she was out, but it did not matter._ _They already knew_ …and she had to find the blood.

Turning the handle, she pushed the door slightly forward. It swung open silently, the hallway dark as the grave, the ancient faces of the past staring back at her from the walls. Edging forward, she sniffed the air again, looking to either side. Empty. The smell came from her left, benches lining the sinister hallway, doors closed to either side. In the far distance, she could see a table…an open door.

Moonlight shining through the open door. Something…so familiar about this place. _Had she been here before? Why could she not remember?_ She crawled forward, her arms starting to fold towards the stone. Already she was tiring. Still she edged forward, leaning against the wall at times, swaying as she gathered her strength… _blood_.

_She had to get to the blood._

Without warning, the blanket fell from her fingers and she crumpled, her breath coming ragged from the exertion. Angels above her head, stone faces watching her from the shadows.

She could go no further…

…but faint, she heard the footsteps again, the sound of a door opening and light sweeping across the floor. She could not see enough…not with the light shining. Eyes falling out of focus, her fingers grasped at the stone, scrabbling against the smooth surface. _Her neck would not listen. It would not turn. Who was coming?_ The feel of a hand beneath her neck, a silhouette at the corner of her vision, kneeling beside her, scooping her up with the blanket.

She could not fight it. No strength. Arms would not listen, though again her stomach turned upon itself, the smell of blood coming closer. _Heat_. Hissing, her eyelids snapped shut, the heat paining her, blinding her completely. She clutched against cloth. Immediately the stranger halted, lowering her to the ground, leaving her beside heat, her fingers clenching in fear. _No_ , she thought. Heat, the crackle of fire. _Too warm._ Instinctively, she tried to draw away again, but she could not move. The body was too weak. The fire was going to burn her. She had dreamed of burning. _Where had the stranger gone? Help her…_

Again, the hand under her neck…

…and then blood on her lips. The smell of blood, the taste of blood on her tongue. Someone held a bowl to her lips. Desperate, she grasped the hands, gulping the liquid, almost choking in her effort to get it down, the sharpness of her teeth getting in the way. Liquid dribbling down the side of her mouth, but she did not stop. All of it. She wanted all of it and more.

Coughing, she finally choked and the hands stole away, leaving her as she folded over, her lips smearing against the blanket. Her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to breathe, trying to focus her eyes. Too much of the weakness remained, sleep waiting on the edge of her conscience. Like the figure that had carried her, she could not fight it. She was too exhausted.

_Darkness enveloping her…_

She slept.

… _o… o… o…_

_Again, the woman dreamed._

_Wind rushed against her palm. Before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour, sails fleeing the pier. She had to flee with them. She had to get out. Darkness would turn into daylight. Hrafn, aid her…blood on her hands, pain burning in her side. Where was the historian? She had to sleep. She had to get away from…fire._

_Fire coating her back and melting her skin. One moment she lay in water, the next, she burned. Searching her lungs for breath, her neck craning against some unseen force, her teeth fighting for purchase. She could not possess it. She could not flee it. An iron hand forcing her to look up, wrenching her neck even further…screaming and looking up into the sun. Not the sun…nor the moon._

_The eyes of the storm._

With a cry, she woke again, light forcing her eyes to creep rather than fly. Nausea beating at her stomach, but she struggled against it, forcing herself to focus. She could feel the blanket beneath her. Focus on something. Anything. _The memory of fire. Stones glistening from fire. Wood cracking from the heat. Dried blood on her chin…blood in her veins._ _Her body no longer as weak as when she first woke._ Blinking, she sat up in a daze, uncurling her arm from beneath and touching the blood on her lips, drawing the blanket up and keeping her body covered. _Where was this place? Different from the bedroom. An enormous mantle above her, the stones laid by a mason long dead._ _The remnants of a fire kept alive by…_

Her eyes focused all too sharply.

_…grey eyes._

_It was…him._

Dark shadows on his face, he sat only a few feet away, his back against a wooden cupboard, calmly observing her, the eyes which did not blink, a knife in his hand and the blood-rimmed bowl at his feet. Short hair that spoke of waves and a beard that had not been trimmed in several days. The coat was heavily wrinkled for he must have slept in his clothes, the white shirt stained with blood. _He was the one that had fed her, yet there was more to this memory._

_The nightmare burning her._

_The one who had…carved into her back. It was him._ _His hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look up._ _Hauling her forward to stare into his eyes with fear. He was the fire. The pain._

Instinctively, her teeth drew back and she hissed, spine curving slightly, talons drawing the blanket with her as she retreated on the balls of her feet. Her perspective changed, the world shooting into even sharper focus. Teeth as points, her senses heightened, the sound from her lips growing harsher, a blade rasping against stone. She could smell the burning wood, the remains of blood. There was a door at the other end of the room. Every moment, her body gained strength in the change, yet the man remained expressionless, following every movement and now serenely turning the knife blade in his palm. _He knew of vampires then. Was he an exile? He must be…_

_She could outrun him…she could…_

"Better you remain here," he said quietly, not quite looking at the door and turning the back of his neck as if loosening it. As he made the movement, she saw beyond his lips…his teeth. Sharp, the heritage of immortals. _He was a vampire then…_ His voice deep; not so much cruel as hard. Latin, he spoke. Such cold eyes, grey irises reflecting light which began to transform, almost imperceptibly. So close to the flame, the shape of firelight and strange visions passing before her. Light and the faintest hint of growing… … _silver._

_Lycan!_

Reckless, she made a break for the door, her nails already at a point, the blanket dropping into a heap behind her. Her bare feet flying across the hot stone, the rush of air. _Freedom. She could not be trapped. Not again…_ She skidded to a halt, almost falling, forcing her body to balance at the last second, her eyes gaping at the door. He was already there. Fast…strong, leaning against the door, his arms behind his back, the knife hanging almost unobtrusively from his fingers. _Try it,_ his expression said.

With a second hiss, she backed away from the door. __The Awakening may have weakened her, but hand-to-hand combat aside, she had other tactics_. Fire_. She spied the blanket she had dropped. Letting her hand move by instinct, her fingers darting to the ground, taking hold of the rough material; already planning the movements of her hand—thinking to light it, thinking to burn her way across the room _…_

_…only to falter._

Her legs suddenly frozen. Her eyes growing wide, staring at the fingers of her right hand. The crackling light of fire showing every detail without mercy _._

_Her hands._

_It was…it was impossible._

Her gaze stumbled across her body, struggling to take it all in. The blanket falling as she staggered back. Old skin. Spindly arms, sinewy legs, mottled skin, the shock of sagging breasts. The moment of realisation ending as she raised a trembling hand to her cheek. _Wrinkled. Her face was wrinkled_. Finally, the cold rushed upon her, a strange sound rising in the back of her throat. She was starting to shake. _She was a vampire. She could never grow old. She was…immortal._ The air was thin. She could not breathe, her knees buckling to the floor. _Cold stone and no one to catch her. No one to tell her she was dreaming._ Panting on the ground, she stared at the stones beneath her palms and then, in desperation, sought the lycan's gaze…

His expression had grown colder. _No words._

Like a beast, he jerked contemptuously from the door, the walking gait of a wolf crossing the room. He knew she could not escape. He had done this to her, and for _her_ pains, he did not care. _A callous man_ … _a dog returning to his position by the wall_ … And yet, before he could pass, she suddenly reached out, her hand seizing the edge of his clothing, halting him in his path… _a lycan_. _She was touching a lycan, yet s_ _he did not care._

"I will heal?" she whispered, her voice coming out harsh. Even her voice had changed. Rough and scratched. "I will heal?" she said again, almost pleading with him.

"No," he said curtly, silver eyes staring down from above. His answer was final.

She could feel it…water behind her eyes. _She would be old. Already an exile, but now old…why did he stare at her? Staring at her age. Her old hands._ Quickly she gathered the blanket around herself. _Her body might be ancient, but his eyes would never touch her again._ Facing the floor, the last hint of water dried away before the first tear even had a chance to fall. She would not cry. Stone must settle where water had been.

" _You_ did this to me," she snarled as he stepped away.

"You argue with yourself," he replied frostily, turning on his heel to stare at her, falling back on the old phrases of Latin. _A scholar then?_ The disbelief must have shown on her face for his expression tightened. Fluid, the man stalked back to his seat, folding his arms carelessly on the knees and closing his eyes.

She blinked…he was _closing_ his eyes. Such an insult. A guard whose charge was so weak that he did not need to keep watch. She must be stone, yet a lump of cold water had already settled in her throat, her hands starting to tremble again. _A half-sleep._ _All knew the dangers of a half sleep, so how could she have done this to herself?_ _She had only come here in the first place because…_ The memory fled before she could grasp on to it.

_She could not remember._

"How many months?" she said faintly. _So strange to hear her voice, so harsh._

"Two decades," he shrugged, balancing the knife hilt on his palm, leaning his head back against the cupboard, relaxing while he spoke of her misfortune. In a daze, she felt the last of her resolve crumble.

"And the…the coven?" She stumbled over the word.

"A few miles to the east," he murmured languidly, only the faintest slice of silver to suggest his eyes had opened by a margin. "…and I suspect, once they see that mark of yours, they'll have you beaten, questioned, stripped of that little blanket, and then burnt alive." His tone suggested he had moved beyond such trivialities…

_He was threatening her…_

… _either that or stating the obvious. Weak as she was, this lycan held her fate in the palm of his hand. In the past it had happened, exiles betraying other exiles such as themselves. Creatures tied up by some unknown hand and left by the coven gates for judgment._

Swallowing, she nodded dimly, turning her face towards the fire and crawling closer. The heat no longer frightened her. She remembered fleeing her visions. _Screaming._ _Visions of burning._ _Her memories still so fleeting, the recent ones all but gone, the past broken into pieces, yet she knew only too well the truth of what she was. The only possible reason for why a lycan would wake a vampire._ Shrewd, she kept him in the corner of her eye and he watched her just as keenly, playing with the knife to suggest indifference. She knew how carefully he navigated this deal. Earlier, he had pushed her into the corner with words. Now he seemed to be weighing something, a decision is his mind.

_It would not be long before he made the proposition…_

_He could have forced her…_

…yet taking his time, the lycan seemed to savour the moment, rising slowly from the floor, abandoning the knife and advancing closer, the firelight reflecting on his face, looming above her…the threat of his species, the faintest hint of silver moving across his eyes and then fading. He was controlling it. He could control the silver.

"I offer you a way out," he said, soothing her with the deep voice of a poet. _A chameleon this one. One moment he spoke as cold as northern ice, the next he held warmth like the flame at her hands. Flawless Latin._

"And if I do not take it?" she said grimly, knowing the answer already. _That a lycan should speak with such refinement. A dog._ She would not give him the benefit of height. Instead of craning her neck, she focused on the fire, her back straight, her bearing that of a queen rather than a prisoner. She would be his prisoner all too soon enough.

He leaned against the mantle, folding his arms. "You must realise I was being polite when I said 'offer'…"

She said nothing, a part of her wanting clutch against the stone, yet she had expected as much. _There was a strange expression on his face, something she could not interpret. It was almost…cruelty on the verge of amusement. One who laughed in the face of anguish. He did not smile, yet his eyes were amused by her circumstance. Beast,_ she thought _._

"Then I will accept," she whispered to the fire.

"Oh, it is not so simple," said the lycan, all trace of his amusement fading like water on sand. She blinked, estranged by the sudden departure of his warm demeanour. He changed his emotions so quickly. _What strategy was this?_ _Like forcing a combatant to kneel and then dragging the floor from beneath their feet. What more could he…_

… _proof,_ she realised faintly.

_He wanted proof that she was as the mark had branded her. Yet it could be dangerous giving a blood-seer the fruit they required for sight. The words were not always positive. No understanding of time or sequence, a vision that spoke of death could take place in a year or a century. In many cases, it might not even occur. Simply a warning of things to watch for…_

"Your blood?"

"Never."

She blinked at his answer, suddenly seeing the lycan in a different light.

_In the old days, before their exile, blood-seers would taste the blood of a lycan, falling into the trance, speaking in what some called the 'tongues.' At first the vision would foster upon the lycan's blood, but during the seer's trance, vampire soldiers would gain their reading by feeding the seer enough blood to bring about their own visions. In all those days, the Elders had never once allowed their blood to come in contact with the seers. One of the first lessons she had been taught as a child…_

… _only a leader will refuse._

_This one was high in the lycan ranks._

"Then whose?" she whispered.

"We'll call him a friend," he replied briskly, turning on his heel and striding to the cupboard. It seemed he had noticed her pause after his refusal to provide. Stooping to pick up the bowl on the ground, he was back in less than a heartbeat, holding the container out to her. "…now _drink_." It was a command.

"Only a drop or it will cost you," she said, taking the bowl and squinting into its depths. _Lycan blood was poisonous, but the more she drank, the stronger the vision._ _A single drop brought nausea. Two brought the blood back up. Three and she'd be bedridden. Any more than that and he could consider this deal as over-before-it-began._

"Only a drop," he agreed with a tilt of the chin, folding his arms and smiling genuinely as if causing her discomfort was the furthest thing from his mind. Instead of drinking, she placed the bowl firmly on the ground and stared up at him, contemplating the strange changes that went with this one's character. Already his tone had changed again. No longer a guard, but an obliging comrade. _Could this be true poison? A drug before he left her to the coven's mercy?_

_How could one trust such a changeling?_

"Quickly now…" he muttered suddenly, waving a hand. "…the sun is setting. We leave as soon as it is dark." Apparently, the smile had been too much for him for it had faded into a grim scowl.

_At least his impatience remained constant…_

_…and there lay the trick._

Forcing herself to remain as tranquil as water, she bowed her head slowly, taking her sweet time as she demonstrated her choice to submit. Her finger dipped into the bowl and keeping her back straight, she brought the blood to her lips…and tasted it. The sharp, tangy taste of lycan blood, almost bitter as tree bark. She wanted to retch, but instead, trained as she was, she swallowed. The lights began to dim, a cold wind on her back as one whispering secrets across her skin. Swaying, she let the vision take her.

_Blackness overwhelmed her, her lips opening of their own accord._

" _Wolf beaten of iron, leather and sand. Thrown on the seas, taken from another who is dead and rocking across the waters."_ Sharp, her eyes flicked upwards, seeing nothing, seeing all as she saw through the blood, aware and vacant as only a seer could be during the trance. _"So strange a land where some call him savage when they are more savage than he. Faithful, yet what is faithful when trust is broken? Seek not the master, but the blood…for he will rise against…"_

"… _Budapest_ ," she gasped, awareness drawing the blackness away, the colours of the room reeling forward as the trance left. As always, the images began to fade from her mind. As always, she could not remember what she saw…

… _yet the words remained._

_And the nausea._

"Do you believe?" Breathing heavily, she raised her head, staring at the man on her right. He had made no comment, a strange light growing in his eyes. Perhaps now he was considering whether to burn her himself or leave her to his enemies? "…do you believe?" she demanded. _Her strategy of patience would not work so well when it was so rapidly wearing thin. Nausea gripping her stomach, forcing her to fold over, gripping her side. Why did he not answer?_

Watching her discomfort, his lips drew back suddenly, the smile almost warming his expression. The glinting eyes of a man staring at gold. "I believe we are at an accord," he said, holding out a hand. _A hand?_ _What was this?_

She swallowed, eyeing the hand, suspicious of its meaning…and then quickly, before he could take it away, she grasped it. A firm shake, though she had the suspicion he was making a true effort not to crush her fingers. _How very generous…_ It only took her a moment to understand the handshake as the deal rather than friendliness.

"You'll need proper attire for the journey," the lycan continued, letting her hand go and stalking to the cupboard, the wolf-gait back in his bearing. The edge had returned to his voice, the hardness which reminded her that he was a lycan and she a vampire. He opened the cupboard and tossed her a leather bundle from one of the shelves, shutting the cupboard with a loud bang. She flinched, catching the bundle, her eyes narrowing at him. _Brusque and curt, this one would trample a deer just to find its tracks._

He strode towards the door, walking and talking to save time… "Once we reach the city, your wardrobe can be fine-tuned, but until then, make do with what we have." He reached for the handle, his final instructions spoken over the shoulder. "When the sun is fully set, I will come for you. Ten minutes."

_His hand on the door-handle, and only then did she think to ask…_

" _Wait_ …" she growled, her frustration sounding out for he actually halted at her word. _Where had the steel of her will gone? She would need it in the coming days._ Licking her lips, she forced the question… "Your name. Who are you?"

"Who am I?"

For the first time, there was a trace of distrust in the lycan's voice. His face was in the shadows already, but he turned slowly on his heel to stare at her, the grey eyes reflecting silver for a moment. Upon seeing her face, he started to smile…and then gave a faint bark of laughter. As if he had expected to see a lion, but found a lamb in its place. Something so strange about this man.

The silence as he studied her face, only the hint of a malicious smile remaining. "You know I'm afraid, young woman, that your heart would stop if I told you."

Before she could reply, the lycan slipped through the door, the last fading rays of sunlight just visible in the open hallway. _Sunlight…_ Her body recoiled, curling under the blanket, but just as suddenly as the door opened, it slammed shut. Her ears still ringing, she forced herself breathe, relaxing the sensation to cringe, the blanket falling and the bundle settling in her lap.

_Ten minutes he had given her._

Quickly, she began to pull clothing from the bundle…a plain tunic and a pair of long breeches, both smelling of dust. About to start dressing…and then feeling forlorn for a moment. _He'd used the diminutive form in Latin,_ she realised with a sigh _._ _Not just woman, but 'young' woman._

_'Diminutive' woman._

__It was an unnecessary slight, though she was sure to receive far worse insults in future_ _ _. Best to get used to it now. He had not even asked her name…a testament to how much he saw her as a tool rather than a person._

Unwilling to let cruel words affect her state of mind, she concentrated on strategy, all-the-while pulling the breeches on and the tunic over her head. _Nothing to be done about her hair. No shoes, but her feet were tough._ Grabbing the blanket, she began to fold it, preparing herself for the concept of leaving with a lycan. There had to be a way to handle him.

_He was brisk and impatient. Weaknesses which could give her an edge over him. Though how high he stood among the lycans, she could not wager. He worded his commands as questions, almost fooling his listener into thinking there was actually a choice involved. And where could they be going? Probably a den. If there was even a horde large enough to warrant one. Lycans were dogs…animals. Not since the days of Lucian had they…_

She froze, the nausea rising, her thoughts streaming ahead, laying the truth before her like a line of tracks running across the earth. She could hear his voice suddenly, turning in her mind, her heart sinking as she realised what was strange about his wording. _Like an Elder who'd forgotten how to speak a language in any other tone but that of the oldest creature in the room._ It occurred to her in the same moment... _  
_

_It was not an insult._

_T_ _he lycan simply believed he was older than her. Older than a seer from before the eleventh century. _Faster and stronger than any lycan she had ever seen. A man who spoke flawless Latin. One who refused blood as only a leader must.__ She could hear his footsteps now. Coming towards the door behind her.

 _No,_ she thought, the blanket falling from her fingers for the second time that night. _Impossible._

_Lucian is dead. Lucian was killed in the…_

The door opened and she yelped, almost falling to the ground, twisting to face the eyes which did not blink. Darkness behind him, the harsh lines of a wolf, silver gazing upon her like a moon beside a candle sputtering with dying flame. His face was so different now that night had fallen. _Ruthless…the slaughter of thousands at his hand. The desecration of the smaller covens. The killing of men, women, and children. Mortals and vampires alike. The night of flame and retribution…how many stories had she heard of his cruelty._

"You are…d-dead," she stammered.

"And you are _quick_ ," he mused softly, stepping forward, the candle casting a cruel light across his face. "A fine trait to be had, though we will see in future whether you remain so." He took another step forward, his face hardening, the skin tightening along his jaw. It was the first sign before a lycan changed, the strength he showed by pausing at this crucial moment. "I am not dead and like you, I have lingered in the dark…" A merciless smile draped itself across his lips, his deep voice sweeping across the room with tranquil abandon. "…but I have not wasted my time. I swear to you now, blood-seer, speak my name to a single soul and our deal is at an end. Am I understood?"

She nodded quickly, every instinct screaming at her to climb the walls, throw herself into the flames…somehow to get away. She had thought him cold before. This was cold… _the chill of one who could murder thousands in a single night. They said that during the final years before his death, he had scoured the countryside, his lycans raping and pillaging, terrori_ s _ing the villages. Massacres. Entire families torn into pieces of flesh. He would kill her if she spoke his name._

"Excellent." He nodded curtly and then carried on as though his threat was his calling card. "Now we are to travel under the cover of darkness. Although we are _not_ acquainted, for the sake of our mutual purpose, may I at least have the pleasure of your name?"

She choked.

 _How many facets did this lycan hold to his character? The tension in his skull had faded and he spoke as a gentleman. As though they had just happened upon each other in the library of an acquaintance._ She could not relax… _every facet was a façade and a killer lay beneath them all._

Shivering she took a careful step back. "I have no name," she managed, shaking her head.

"You will tell me eventually," he replied, allowing his head to rest against the door frame, a wolf which had paused a moment before the kill. _Clearly, he did not believe in her statement._ He had the air of a man conversing with his prey…and though it was clear that he had many methods for extracting information from prisoners, she would give him no name…

… _she could not._

_Since waking, she had known. Memories broken by one who had sliced into her veins. Had he known the damage he had inflicted? Scenes of her childhood. Moments in her past…a name almost on her tongue, yet she could not grasp it for the name was gone._

"It is no lie," she whispered, her lip curling as she remembered what he had done. "I have no name. Perhaps you _carved_ it from my memories while I was sleeping?"

" _Alright_ ," he said brusquely, seeming tired of their polite conversation, one hand gesturing for her to come, the other still holding the candle. " _…_ you are _nameless_. We will think of some sordid word to call you on the journey." His expression had hardened, no longer a man staring upon gold but ash. His next words were spoken almost in bitterness… "Before we leave, oh nameless one, I imagine you wish to speak with someone. A historian of sorts…surely you remember _his_ name?"

 _A name?_ Confused, she squinted at her captor…unsure of his meaning, a broken slate where her memories had once been. _A historian…_

_There was no…_

_Wait…_

_There was something there._

The dream flashed before her, her eyes closing, her hands rising to her head as she remembered. _Wind rushed against her palm. Before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour, sails fleeing the pier._ _She had wanted to flee with them. She had needed to get out…a question always on her lips._

_Where was the historian?_

_The historian…_

Eyes shot open.

" _Tanis_ ," she hissed, suddenly aware that some…anger…had found its way into her conscience. She could not remember a face, but there was hatred. _What for…why? Why did she…hate him? And why would Lucian wish to remind her of this?_ Still standing by the door, the man had remained quiet at her outburst. There was a dark gleam in his eye, as if he had chosen to take a step back, content to watch matters take their course. Something he was interested to see.

_She had to think._

Stepping over the blanket, she began to circle the room. _Sleep. Why had she put herself into sleep? Monastery…she stood in a monastery and he was…_ Suddenly she stilled, her eyes darting along the walls, the horrific memory rising from the depths. _Faces on the walls. Angels. A room at the end…a lock on the door._ Her jaw tightened and fear rising up, she darted forward, pushing past the infamous lycan-master into the hallway, her breath coming ragged. She looked to the right and left. _Which way? S_ eeming undisturbed by her freedom of movement, Lucian was carelessly following her with his gaze _…_ and then his eyes flicked to the left for a split-second.

_A hint._

Her head twisted in the same direction, squinting deeper into the hallway. Between the benches, upon the dust, she walked barefoot until she reached the door at the very end. The iron lock rusty after so many years. Reaching her hand out, shaking, she turned the handle, pushing the door open. The bed of wooden slats. The broken chair and the secretaire covered in dust. Tomes on the floor, the tapestry and the bookshelf lying in pieces. As if she were living a second time, the memory flashed before her…

_A room at the end of the hallway, a lock on the door. Tanis had led her there…he had said…he had said there was a book in the room. He would aid her. He would be back, the door slamming shut, the key turning in the lock._

_Hours passing, days locked in there, her body growing weaker. No blood to be had and screaming. She had screamed until her voice was ragged, screaming to the angels…the faces on the ceiling and walls, the tapestry covering the hole. The catacombs were rock-solid…and Tanis…_

_He was going to feed on her…on her body. She had to…get out. No way out. How to survive…how to stay alive when another vampire held you in his grasp? He was going to kill her… more days passed. Weeks. Screaming, her body had shrivelled up, her veins slowing in their pace. He would not have her blood._

_He would not drain her dry._

_Adrenaline._ Turning with a snarl, she left the room, hunting quickly down the hallway and beneath the angels, storming into the main hall, searching for the culprit. The massive table…the books, the chairs, the candleholders. None of the candles were lit, yet she could see clearly through the darkness, her teeth already bared.

 _There he was_ …

Andreas _Tanis_ cringing beneath the watch of a colossal, dark lycan. The lycan whose blood she must have tasted earlier, yet all she could see was the swine at his feet. The trembling vampire, his robes in a heap, wrinkled and skinny, the appearance of a weasel caught in the garden. The years had not been kind to him, but they had been far worse to her. Already he was trying to get behind the lycan, his hands raised up in innocence, but suddenly, they both heard the sound of footsteps… _Lucian was coming_ …and without shame, the historian changed his tactics, now emerging from behind the dark lycan and pointing viciously at her with his finger…

"Woman, you cannot touch me…you _cannot_ ," he yelled, as if this were a game where words could stop her from ripping his head off. "We made a _deal_ …Lucian, we made a…"

"I will kill you," she spat, her voice coming harsh, almost a growl.

"No, you will not," Lucian interjected smoothly from behind, all their heads swivelling to follow him. He had just passed beneath the angels, and tranquil as the moon, he stepped past her and took a seat in one of the armchairs, his entire focus on the floor now, fingers searching through the numerous books at his feet. Finally pinching one from the top of a pile, he placed the candle on the table, flipped the book open and began to read. Her mouth dropped open. _He was reading?_ To make matters worse, her eyes could just make out the title along the spine…

' _Theophrastus._ _Historia Plantarum.'_

A vengeful hiss began to grow in her throat. _She was about to murder this worm of a vampire,_ _and the most infamous lycan-master in history not only stopped her, but was now reading an ancient treatise on…_ _botany?_

_It was too much._

Snarling, she stepped forward and scratched Tanis across the face, the vampire crumpling to the ground in a heap. The dark lycan took a calm step back, his eyes staring forward. With a cry, Tanis sat up, his mouth dropping open, a hand on his cheek…his beady eyes darting to Lucian, his hand pointing at her in disbelief.

"Did you…did you _see_ what she just …"

Before he could finish, she slapped him across the mouth, cutting his words off. Neither Lucian nor the other lycan made a single move…and as Tanis crawled back, she hit him again… _and again…and again._ _Kicking him. Scratching him. This was the culprit…not her. Because of him,_ this _had happened to her face, her skin, her blood. Because of him, she would be forever trapped in the body of a seventy-year old woman. Half her strength, her face ancient, her blows growing weaker. Weaker._ Tanis, bruised, scratched, curled into a ball, warding off blows with his arm…

… _but he was not dead._

She sobbed, staggering back, breathing heavily…sobbing into her fist. _She could not even kill him. She wanted to, but her strength was gone…and now she was crying_. The last shame as her pitiful strength left her. A weak, snivelling worm of a vampire…like a coward, Tanis snarled and then leered maliciously, his grin darting over to the mirror on their right. She could not stop herself. Knowing what she would see, her eyes followed and finally, she caught sight of herself in the glass.

Her face. _Tilted blue eyes gleaming from an ancient face. Water trickling down to the tip of her chin, her cheekbones. Ancient. There was nothing left. Only traces to show what she had once looked like._ Bending to the floor, she picked up a book and strode to the mirror, dashing the spine into the glass, over and over, shattering it so there was nothing but wood in the frame.

At the sound, Lucian finally… _finally_ …glanced up.

"Ready then?" Grey eyes staring at her coldly. There was no sympathy in them. _By his body language, he could sit there all day, impatience thrown aside by the mere presence of a book._ Sullen, she said nothing and to her discomfiture, Lucian only nodded, settling comfortably back into his chair, his cool gaze sliding easily onto the pages again. It was clear that he would wait until she was finished. _Until_ she _was finished._

 _She_.

_It did not take a seer to understand that she had misjudged him. She had assumed impatience was his mistress when in truth, he was the whoreson of vengeance, so much that he would fuck his own schedule just to see his prisoner get some._

She threw the battered book to the ground.

" _Ready_ ," she answered curtly, sneering at the vampire and turning for the monastery door. Behind her, she heard Lucian close the book softly and stand, the dark lycan already striding towards the door. Through the entrance, she saw the stagecoach waiting outside. _Tears still on her face_ … _to have lost her composure in front of that snivelling worm. She would rather not have remembered, yet for the rest of his days, Tanis would think of her as…_

_No…_

She halted.

… _no, she could change this._

Twisting on her heel, she stalked back and kicked the historian in the stomach…and then spat. The kick was weak, but the vampire cried out in anger, greasy with his eyes squinching, drawing himself back with a haughty scoff. _Insolent swine, he knew he would survive this day. He knew he would reap the rewards for having sold her…_

_…but she would be damned before she left him feeling content._

"You will _die_ one day, Andreas Tanis," she said, her voice harsh, the crooning sound of an old crone scratching at his fate. The words she spoke might be a lie…but there was nothing as fearsome as a blood-seer's curse. "Not by my hand, but someone far stronger than me. Someone who will drain your blood just as surely as you were going to drain mine. Mark my words, you will cringe before them. You will beg and you will whine and you will bleat until the very _last_. It will be painful…agony until there are only minutes to live. Then _seconds_. And then…" _Clap!_ She slapped her hands together, causing him to flinch. "…it will end."

His mouth gaped, staring up at her, swallowing and sputtering on the ground, a weasel drowning in immaterial water. She narrowed her eyes once at him and then turned for the door, forcing herself not to look back. _Forcing herself not to hear as Lucian made the same deal with Tanis that he made with her. Down to the very words…_

' _It appears we are at an accord.'_

Outside, she saw the night for the first time in twenty years, the black stagecoach standing before her, the horses stamping their feet in the moonlight. Beyond the monastery ran a long, dirt road, the silhouette of the forest creeping along the countryside like a giant, rustling snake.

The dark lycan pushing aggressively past her, his steps taking him to the stagecoach, powerful arms pulling his body up to the box-seat, all-the-while watching her. His face was like stone. The true emotion of a lycan _…_ one who hated her for her species. _Wait until we get to the den_ , she thought harshly, determined to make the best of this newest stage of her exile. _If Lucian was willing to let Tanis live, then he would keep his wolves from her throat._

She could run. Right now, she could run for the hills _…_ but running would only prolong a hunt for which she had no strength. Instead, stepping up to the coach, accepting the hand fate had dealt her, she opened the door and scrutinised the interior before entering. Soft leather. Everything draped in black to blend with the night. Sniffing, she took a seat upon the soft leather and folded her arms, staring out the window.

_She had been sold…and though it might seem as if she were journeying into hell, she knew when it came to this angelic place, she would prefer this hell._

From behind, she heard the sound of Lucian entering the stage-coach, the door shutting as the lycan took a seat across from her, only the faint light of the moon shining through the window. He knocked on the top of the ceiling and the coach began to move, rocking her back and forth, back and forth like the ocean. Faster as the horses picked up their pace. She would not speak to him. She would not acknowledge him. Instead, closing her eyes, she would dream.

_The deal was done._

She would never look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone concerned over the seer being able to historically think the word 'fuck' in Latin, there's a lovely article over at wikipedia on Latin profanity that will alleviate your fears. (the Latin verb would be 'futuō'.)


	7. Slave or Servant

**Chapter VII: Slave or Servant**

_Thirty seconds earlier._

" _It appears we are at an accord."_

Words spoken a hundred times, a centuries old arrangement providing the final details of the deal. His mind was clear, his hand steady, but his eyes were trained on the woman's back.  _She could not see him watching her,_ _smelling the malice she left behind. Like a drop of venom crawling down his back, the snake biting the man who mistook it for a worm. He was not the only one to smell it._

To his right, Raze shadowed the entrance, his quick steps catching up with her, roughly colliding with her shoulder. Lucian only looked away, forcing himself to calm before any pain could start in his head.  _The last few days had been serene compared to his usual schedule…sleepless nights. Headaches. Imbeciles surrounding him._ _He did not usually coddle prisoners, but he would have to speak to Raze about his conduct. Etiquette. Manners. He prided himself on enforcing a certain decorum among his lycans._ _Of all people, Raze should have learned that by now._

Reflective, he moved onto other matters. There was no point in discussing the finer details of the deal with Tanis. Nothing had changed in four decades save for the means of transport.  _The historian would receive the full price for the blood-seer in a fortnight. Until then, food would find its way to the monastery by way of Goar, the pack-leader of Budapest and the few remaining lycans in the hills._

From below, the sound of gnashing teeth brought him out of his reverie. He glanced down and in the same moment, Tanis glanced up, the hazel-green eyes of the twitching weasel.  _The vampire had taken the thrashing badly, but it was the curse that would leave the mark._ Not so much as a word passed between them, yet it was the singular moment when they were both aware of each other's unease. The curse still lingering in the air…

… _yet already, the vampire was recovering._

_Shrugging the tattered robe around his shoulders, occasionally glaring up at Lucian for not having stopped the beating. How many centuries had they known one another? They were not friends, but one could always appreciate the other man's penchant for survival. A casual smirk emerging on the historian's face as he glanced at the woman's back and then up at Lucian._

_The rapidly growing scent of…_

" _Don't_  even go there," said Lucian tightly, recognising the sleazy gleam in Tanis' eye for what it was. The historian sniggered rashly and then quickly shut his mouth, eyes darting to the floor.  _Foul-minded, blood-sucking son of a pig_.  _As if he…Lucian…could possibly have been staring at the woman for any other reason beyond cold observation. She was old. Decrepit. It was…obscene._ Growling softly in annoyance, the lycan-master turned away, stalking to monastery entrance, arms sternly behind his back.

_Just for that, he was keeping the book._

Stepping outside, it was as if the night had been created solely for his eyes and in gratitude, he breathed deeply, taking in the scent. His homeland. The sound of his boots dampened by grass, the haunting sigh of trees drowning in the peace of the moon anchored above, always tempting with her wiles… _but he could not listen. Not tonight._

Like a creature from the depths, the stagecoach waited upon him, the open door like a gaping mouth, the horses jerking at the reins, raring to be off, but trained enough to hold back. Magnificent animals... _Kisber halfbreds suited to cavalry, but taking their duties in stride. Athletic, elegant…playful when it suited them._  One of the mares flared her nostrils suddenly, her tail coming up to give a sharp flick through the air. Sixteen hands high with a white patch on her shoulder.

_All too subtle reminder._

_Almost three days ago, before the blood-seer woke, he'd spent the afternoon in the western paddock. Currycomb and brushes in hand, grooming the horses down. Hoof-picking. Watering. Attempting to ride one bareback and finding that she liked it better when he was brushing her tail. Anything but a lycan and he might have broken his neck. Of course, Raze had chosen that moment to enter the paddock._

Glancing at the horse with pointed displeasure, Lucian stepped up to the stagecoach, taking his seat across from the blood-seer.  _Thirty minutes to the rendez-vous with Goar and then two hours to the docks._  With the door closed firmly behind them, he rapped his knuckle once against the ceiling and leaned back, the stagecoach leaping into motion.  _The jerky rocking making it almost impossible to read_. Nonetheless, he carried the book in hand, the red spine faded, the gold-leaf creeping along the edges.  _Theophrastus._   _Historia Plantarum_. He'd already devoured it once in his youth, and considering how tired he was now, he just wanted to lie down and sleep _…_

_…_ _but he was guarding._

_His charge ancient and weak, but still officially dangerous; particularly with her knowledge of his name._ Turning the book in his hands, instead of opening it, he scrutinised the vampire. She was breathing shallow, her eyes firmly shut, arms crossed, mimicking the dead. __S_ _he might have to feed before they reached the docks_ , the thrashing seeming to have taken as much out of her as it had Tanis._ The notion did little to warm him to her, the scent of malice muted now that she drifted on the edge of slumber.

_If they could all be so lucky._

"So what does 'H' stand for?" he said bluntly, tossing the book aside.  _Thanks to her, he'd been awake for the last two days and part of that time had been spent with her gorging blood on his shirt._ _He'd eat the damn book before he let her sleep when he could not._

The woman continued to sway, rocking with the stagecoach, firmly ignoring him as all prisoners are wont to do in their first hour of captivity. He could be debris washing the bow of a ship for all the notice she took of him.  _Perhaps his first question had been too abrupt. What with the lack of sleep cutting his tolerance in half, it might have been wiser to take a more subtle approach…_

"You know…" he said softly, squinting through the window.  _Such a warm silence._  "…back when I was young, I might have had some misgiving about using your nails to cut that brand from your…"

" _Slave_."

"What?" He tore his gaze from the hills.

"The  _H_  on my side." Her eyes opened, the firm stare of one who believed herself in the right. "It stands for  _slave_."

_Bloods, she was a moralist. A righteous one at that._

"I prefer the word servant."

"Is there a difference?" She folded her arms tighter, an attempt at straightening her back.  _Where did women learn that trick? Probably passed down through generations. It might have worked had she been several decades younger…and in possession of a bosom._

" _Yes_ ," he grunted. "You keep your skin and I will not  _whip_  you if you disobey me."  _He should have waited until they were on the ship._

"Why whip a  _slave_  when you can force blood down her throat?"

"I  _could_  do that," he agreed coolly, not bothering to temper the fact that she was under his thumb.  _The woman must be insane, arguing matters such as slavery with a lycan. Three times she had said it. 'Slave, slave, slave.' Hairless old crone berating him in Latin, her voice like a strangled chicken._  "…but it would be ill-mannered. I prefer to keep our exchanges civil."

"Civil enough to inquire on a mark that is  _private_." She stressed the word, obviously still harbouring some of the dignities of her lost youth. A great one for stressing her point.  _First slavery and now a patch of skin underneath her shirt._   _The woman should throw her morals aside. It was 1899, for goodness' sake. Industry was booming, and the London den was not the most…proper of places._

Disregarding her glower, he leaned back and concentrated on keeping his human form. "We all have our marks from this war, blood-seer. Yours merely has a letter I have not seen in use." He exhaled, making a conscious effort to soften his tone. "I assure you, there is no hidden agenda to my question and do not think of it as an interrogation."  _That was a lie._ "It is simply better if I know as much as possible about your history while employing you. Also your age and the date of branding."

"I'd rather live with a funnel down my throat."

"I'll use a  _pipette_ ," he said bitingly, turning back to the window.

 _So much for that exchange._ Unbuttoning his coat, he shrugged it off so he could consider the blood on his shirt. He could feel a headache coming…a faint throbbing on his temple. _Seven hundred years ago, that retort would have earned him a strapping. 'Quick tongue. Sharp tendency to point out the obvious. Sleeping with Viktor's daughter. Three nights in solitary. Five hundred lashes.'_

The crone's voice intruded on his moment. She sounded suspicious. "What is a pipette?"

 _Pipette_ …

He sniffed the blood, contemplating how to explain the tool of his threat in as few words as possible _. It was a French device. She had to be alive when that was invented. He could say 'little pipe'…but it was mildly inaccurate in Latin. D_ _amn the old tongue, why was he speaking Latin anyway? Here they were, exiles traipsing around the homeland and by his own mouth, he was offering the biggest calling card of the immortals._

"It's a small type of  _funnel_ ," he offered tetchily in English, his tone deepening as an air of wry sarcasm settled upon him like a second fur. Four teachers and a century of elocution lessons. He could barely remember what he sounded like before he moved to London. _  
_

"Quid dixisti?"

_Oh that was obliging._

" _Look_ ," he directed, almost lying down on the seat, still massaging his left temple.  _His head was throbbing. He should have brought more laudanum with him. Two bottles sitting in a bag at the docks._  "…if you want deathdealers breathing down your neck like the fires of Pompeii, then  _please_ …keep speaking Latin."  _If he could just get the right rhythm, it felt as if by some miracle, he might be able to get the pain under control.  
_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shake her head. Almost snorting to herself as though he had just demonstrated the inferiority of his species. "Nescio quid dixeris," she said firmly…as if  _he_  were the one having trouble understanding her. His first instinct one of irritation, his second one of exhaustion, and his third...

...clarity.

 _The sense that the world had just stopped in its orbit._ For it had to be a joke. A very bad, very ill-timed joke that had no place in this carriage let alone in range of his hearing. Taking the time to breathe for a single precious moment, he forced himself to regard the small woman sitting across from him.  _It was impossible._  "You  _are_ joking," he said.

The woman frowned, her cheeks starting to deepen in their colour. Suspicious of his tone.  _Clearly unsure of what he was saying; and by that virtue, lending weight to the opinion that it was not the woman, but a higher power than himself, that_ _was fucking with him. 'Nescio quid dixeris' being the Latin equivalent for 'I haven't the faintest idea what you're saying'…which meant this woman _ _…___ _this centuries-old woman _ _…___ _was informing him in no uncertain terms that she could not…speak…English _…__

__…_ and where were they going?_

_England._

" _Nescio quid dixeris_ ," she insisted again, forcing her jaw up aggressively.

 _Yes, I heard you_ , he barked inwardly. Closing his eyes for a moment and then sitting up very slowly, effectively restraining himself with the two fingers placed upon his forehead.

He exhaled. "Look," he said.  _He was trying to be pleasant. Honestly. But_  s _omewhere inside that small syllable, his teeth had grown. His neck was starting to itch, his nails were starting to grow, and without proper sleep or laudanum, he was having severe trouble giving a damn._  " _…_ we both know what kind of world we live in, bloodseer _…_ _"_ He was trying very hard to break this down for himself _._  "…so if this is a farce, you should speak up now."

She squinted.  _No answer._

_Okay._

He scratched his forehead. _Perhaps one of the other languages._  "Parlez-vous français?"

Her fingers were starting to grip the edge of her seat.  _She said nothing._

"Italiano," he said. "…español?"

He was being reasonable, but with each word, he could smell her fear growing, layer upon layer, burying the spiteful demon underneath. All trace of colour leaving her skin as she pushed herself back against her seat, turning her eyes to the floor. She had lost the manner of directness, her claws now trembling, curled into tight, craggy fists. _All he could think was 'please let German be the saviour of my sanity.'_

"Deutsch?"

A flicker of an eyelash.

_Nothing more._

He could feel a haggard note of laughter threatening to break from his throat. His tongue switching back to Latin, as he smiled, asking with as much politeness as he could muster, "Look, you'll have to  _forgive_  me if I am failing to grasp what is  _surely_  a simple concept, but…" He felt his teeth draw back. "…what the  _hell_  kind of immortal only speaks Latin?"

 _She might even have answered him_ …

…but then by no small chance, the pain in his head exploded.  _Centuries ago, he might have raised a hand in warning; he might have told her to run. But it was the full moon._ His mind divided like the fabric tearing beneath his claws. The past forty-eight hours without sleep and the desire to Change threatening to lengthen his bones, threatening to extend the top of his spine beyond his neck. His mind able to reason with itself, holding on to that glimmer of humanity, taking hold of the wolf before a Change could run its full course.

And then it was over. His claws buried in the seat and the woman sobbing in the dark. Cringing against the opposite window, her arms outstretched, shivering, as though she had seen Death. The smell of terror coursing from her sweat, causing the stage-coach to lurch to a halt.  _As though even the horses could sense something was amiss._

He tore his nails out of the seat, sitting back with a brusque grimace. Cracking his neck and then raising his fist to the ceiling, knocking twice so that in moments, the rocking motion resumed. The tension remaining in the air, even as he gestured for her to retake her seat. The gesture going unrewarded as the woman continued to stand, swaying with her back against the window. _Too afraid to sit._

An air of sullen regret already threatening to descend on his shoulders, as though he had actually done something wrong.  _G _ranted, h_ _e should not have yelled at her. _It was an ill-advised reaction, a sentiment best avoided at all costs. Particularly by a lycan-master. More so, one already suffering from a 'shall he say, cold' reputation among women.___ The brooding part of his conscience trying to recall what Jacqueline had accused him of the last time he left her quarters. _ _ _ _Something random and paltry. Failure_ _to sympathise_ … _or something like that.____

Determined to focus on something else, he picked up his book and flipped to the front, skimming the first line of the text… _"We must consider the distinctive characters and the general nature of plants from the point of view of their morphology, their behaviour under external conditions..."_

_Damn._

_Even Theophrastus was berating him._

He flipped the page. … _but it was a sham! The twentieth century was just around the corner. English was the language of the new world. French, German, Italian…_  Thoroughly irritated, he glanced at the bloodseer again, finally admitting to himself that he found her gaze uncomfortable.  _Did she plan to stand there all night?_

She was gripping the panelling, her eyes growing wider the longer that he watched her. Moonlight casting its pallor upon her face, like a false halo that had slipped, strangling her from behind.  _One of the first things a lycan child learned to spot, that unholy lustre suggesting that not only lycans were affected by the moon._  Also the likely reason for why she did not trust him not to kill her just yet.

_The moon._

_The unholy lustre that lay upon his eyes as well; blood knew he had frightened her enough this evening._  Knowing he must give up something to get, he flipped tersely to the next page and then breathed deeply, forcing the silver lining of his eyes back, watching as the entire coach receded into a state of black. _It would be harder to read now._

 _The minutes passing_ …

…but  _still she would not sit._

"Do you speak something  _other_  than Latin," he asked finally, perturbed at being forced to cater, watching her coolly through the corner of his eyes.  _Grey eyes._   _Calm, civil, and quiet._ _Was he so bad? Yes. But he was making an effort. Perhaps he was too used to being among his own kind._  The silence began to drag. He considered repeating the question, but instead cleared his throat loudly. The sound making her flinch, her eyes darting to the floor. _To think he used to pride himself on his ability to charm people._ "Anything?"

For a moment, it seemed she would stay silent. And then the blue eyes flickered up.

"N-Norwegian…" Her voice was shaking badly. "…and Danish." As if she could not believe she was finding enough air to make sound and for a moment, she seemed lost, her mouth opening and closing. She soon recovered. "Swedish. Finnish. Old N-Norse." She exhaled, fixing her eyes on the window. "Gothic. Greek. Northern and Southern Sámi. Ume Sámi. Pite Sámi. Lule Sámi _._ Skolt Sámi." Close to loosening her grip on the woodworks, she picked up a slow and steady steam, reciting each language carefully as if it had some special meaning. "Inari Sámi. Kemi Sámi. Kildin Sámi. Ter Sámi. Akkala Sámi…"

"…and Russian."

Like the water had dried up, her mouth clamped shut.

 _Silence around them once more._  Already calculating, Lucian closed his book and tapped the spine against his chin, scrutinising the bloodseer.  _So she spoke something other than Latin. That was good. Excellent even. There were not many northerners in his home pack. With the upcoming merge, any linguist presented another advantage._ _  
_

"You're a Laplander?"

"Half Sámi," she said, correcting him. She was no longer shivering, but her backbone was bent over. The ordeal had exhausted her.  _He still would not let her sleep._

"Well, I appreciate your knowledge of the Northern languages," he remarked, switching casually to Russian. "…and though I believe we have one Swede, the rest of my pack will be unintelligible. When we arrive at our destination, that is to say, your new home, you will be tutored in English, French, and German."

"I will not," she said quietly.  _At least she had not lied about speaking Russian._

"You will  _not?_ " He could not mask the warning tone in his voice. It was the kind of tone that made pack-members jump, but she shook her head, shifting farther away from him and closer to the window.  _So much for the days of compliance._ When he smiled, the effect seemed to make her uncomfortable. To his surprise, he found himself trying another angle, going so far as to persuade her rather than order. "What are a few more languages among a dozen?"

"I have no need of the English," she snapped, almost to herself, a fierce glint showing in the eye. Her breath was coming shallow, but she stared out the window as if she wanted to break something. The trembling scent of fear growing thorns.

_Not just 'English...'_

_'The English...'_

_Clearly he had struck a cord…_

Before he could investigate, the awaited knock came from above, the stagecoach slowing to a halt.  _Goar would be waiting outside and they could not stay here long._ Already reaching for his coat, he muttered 'stay' and shifted closer to the door.  _Absolute nonsense. Of course she would speak English. Whatever loathing she held for the language or its people would have to be set aside once they reached…_

His hand stopped a millimetre from the handle.

… _London._

_Now there was a conundrum._

_In all this, he had not once mentioned their destination to her._

Perturbed by this final thought, Lucian turned the handle and stepped from the stagecoach, the streets deserted on either side of the small town of Koachi. Before him stood a small inn, the windows broken, the only illumination coming from the moon. Most people remained indoors after dusk, particularly on a Sunday. Through the back, he spied Goar, but he held up two fingers, commanding the man to wait for a spell. _What to do?_

Inhaling deeply, he leaned back into the stagecoach and briefly considered his conscience, the open door in hand.  _To alarm or not to alarm…that was the question._  The woman looked up uncertainly, but he merely stared. _She was tiny. Weak, fragile…unstable. How cruel it would be to heap another coal upon her worries_ _…_  He smiled warmly at her, aware of the discomfort she must be feeling.  _How much crueler to leave her in the dark._

"You are going to live in England," he whispered.

She blanched.  _"Wha-"_

He shut the door, cutting off her exclamation. _Undeniably, the most satisfying shock he'd given her all night. As for the rest of his evening_ _…_ Ten minutes to meet with Goar, change his shirt and they'd be on their way to the docks, their path cleared by Kraven and his rogue deathdealers. They were three days behind schedule, but there was too much at stake for his cousin not to guarantee them safe passage. He knew Soren, Kraven's underling, would wait as long as needed, keeping watch on the streets until the coach arrived through the first district.  _The centre of Budapest._   _Only a few miles from the third district where Ordoghaz lingered in the dark._

His face darkened, eyes glancing to the east.  _Viktor was there right now._

_Alive…_

… _and just two more years._

 _Two years until Amelia's awakening. Two years and they could resume their work. Until then, the world did not stop for his hatred. Keep to the shadows and survive the war._ Forcing himself to look away, Lucian stepped towards the inn…

_Goar was waiting for his orders._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> "We must consider the distinctive characters and the general nature of plants from the point of view of their morphology, their behaviour under external conditions..." That line is from Theophrastus, Enquiry into Plants, (Historia Plantarum. Translated by Sir Arther F. Hort.)


	8. The Meeting with Goar

**Chapter VIII: The Meeting with Goar**

_The inn was much changed from how he remembered it._

_Back then, almost ten years ago, there had been a quiet warmth; a few servers staring curiously from their place by the wall, a farmer nursing his drink and Hajna, the white-haired innkeeper knuckling her back as she lumbered out of the kitchen. Once the flaxen-haired innkeeper's daughter, she had been a rose to the eye in her youth. Only cobwebs and dust now, the wooden rafters of the thirteen-foot ceilings covered in smoke stain and ash. Clean rectangles on the wall where framed pictures had once hung. All the tables and chairs gone, the fireplace empty and the iron lamps unlit._

Lucian passed through the main room, through the open doors to the back, the private cobble-stone courtyard where weeds grew. Most of the garden was dead, the rose bushes gone wild. Goar was sprawled on the ground, his hands folded on his chest, staring up at the night-sky. In many ways, the lycan resembled the weeds. Faded brown hair hanging almost to his chin, brown eyes beneath the lycan-glaze, neither tall nor short. The kind of man that could pass unnoticed through a crowd and slip a dagger in your back. He did not turn his head as Lucian approached.

"You smell like a Blood."

"Tanis has that effect on people," Lucian frowned, taking his coat off and dropping it on the ground. The grey waistcoat followed suit, and he began undoing the gold cufflinks along his wrist. There was more red on his shirt than white.  _Blood, blood, everywhere and not a drop to drink._  He focused on the gold. "I am sorry to hear of Hajna." _He was more than sorry, but Goar had been a fool to start the dalliance. Few survived the bite._

"It ended before she died."

"All the same."

 _Friend or lover, mortals always died in the end._ His fingers kept slipping on the right cufflink. Considering tearing into the sleeve, he almost growled. _He should never have started using this trend. Fastening sleeves…it was ridiculous. Constricting. A shirt was a shirt._ Finally he got the clasp unhooked.

"Did you kill him?" Goar's eyes suddenly flicked towards him.

"No." The cufflinks went into his pockets. He knelt by the waistcoat, removing the gold watch and pocketing that as well. Not bothering to unbutton the blood-stained shirt, he pulled it up and over his head. "The deal went through. The terms are the same, though for a longer stretch. Do you see any trouble?"

"If I do, I will deal with it." Goar shrugged, his teeth showing slightly.  _It was not an expression of challenge, merely the languid movements of a hardened wolf._. "A tenth of the kill for every week. He will have to store it himself. Guards will be harder to come by."

The bloody shirt fell to the ground and Lucian snapped his fingers.

"Shirt."

Undisturbed by the request, Goar sat up almost gracefully and pulled off his shirt, handing it over. The moment the cloth exchanged hands, the man was back down on the stones again, bare back upon the cold ground. "Food supplies are in the cellar. Most of it is dried, but there is fresh meat as well. It should last you the whole journey."

Lucian grunted in acknowledgement, pulling the shirt over his head in one motion, arms through the sleeves. The material felt good. Faded wool, cold from the stones but cleaner than anything he had worn in the past three days. "You have blood?"

"Some."

"Enough for two days?"

"Depends on the vampire. Man or woman?" There was a lazy smile on the lycan's face. He was fishing for information, already aware it seemed that the deal had involved something more than books or history. _The man could fish to his heart's content. Eventually, all the pack-leaders would be informed of her presence._

"Woman." Lucian stalked back inside. "Weak. Old. She'll need more than usual."  _He had nothing to hide._   _Female vampire prisoner. Exiles, traitors to the Blood. Most of the ones he brought over were executed, but it was not unheard of for one or two to go on living for a spell. The horde might protest when he revealed the woman's knowledge of his name...but_ _he would cross that bridge when he came to it._

Distinctly, he heard Goar stand up, the padding of bare footsteps behind him. Back inside, the kitchen was to his right, the faint smell of grease leading him on. The stove had not been used in some time, wooden cupboards empty, the cooking utensils missing from their holders. Through another alcove was the cellar door, wide open with the steep wooden stairs leading down.  _He trusted Goar, but his instinct always considered the danger. There was no lock on the door, nothing to keep him trapped. If Goar decided to betray him, the stairs were steep but wide. It would be possible to gain the higher ground in a tussle._

Ducking his head, Lucian took the steps two at a time, his eyes adjusting to the pitch-black darkness. He did not fail to notice the missing items from upstairs, stacked tables and chairs, an almost empty wine rack, a few trunks, and a clean pallet in the corner. Four sacks sat in the centre of the room, the mouth-watering aroma of lamb almost making his stomach rumble. Goar trailed behind him and over to the wine rack, plucking two bottles from the bottom, the liquid sloshing around thickly. Balancing them carefully against his chest, the man wrapped his arm around one of the sacks and moved to the stairs, taking a seat and content to wait as Lucian eyed the cold cellar.  _There were scratch-marks on the walls, the faintest hint of alcohol drifting through the air. Eventually, the space would do for storage, but it would have to be emptied and cleaned._

"You have it then?"

"I do." The lycan knew what he meant.  _The deed to the property. Hajna had left Goar everything she owned, including the land that the inn was built upon._

"The name?"

" _Gyorg Balogh._  Distant nephew from Szeged and the only family relative still living." The lycan smirked, bowing his head for a moment as if introducing himself for the first time.  _How many names had they all assumed over the past millennium? All of them fleeting. He could remember only a handful of the ones he himself had taken._

"Townspeople?"

"The older ones are dead and my time within the boundaries was too short for them to remember my face. The younger ones keep to themselves. Rocks through the window, but nothing more."

"Good. Keep it that way." He did not need to remind the man of pack rules. They were simple enough.  _Keep to the shadows, survive the war_ …

… _and when your face no longer matches your age, disappear._

_Probably in five years or so, the man would have to relinquish the deed._ _Another lycan would take his place and then another until enough years had passed that all trace of Gyorg Balogh was forgotten._ _Officially, the land would still belong to Goar, but he would have to claim it under the lycan registry rather than the Hungarian one._

_The lycan registry._

_How long that had taken to establish he could not calculate, but it_ _s existence was a guarded and necessary evil. Lycan survival methods had become increasingly complex in recent years, and to compensate, r_ _ecords of property and land had to be kept. All pack-members switched lives at least five times a century, taking up residence where others could no longer live. All were connected by the Line, a system of communication developed in the late 1500s. In all these years, the Line had never once been cracked, in all likelihood due to scent being one of the code-markers._

In a mood to pace, Lucian walked over to one of the trunks and took a seat, settling himself, his hands resting on his knees.  _It was time for orders. True orders. He had not come all this way just to speak about a deed._ "You have someone in mind for the task?"

"Imre. He is fourth in line for my pack…a recent change. Only a few decades old, but loyal. His face stands to age a few more years." There was a readiness to Goar's voice that had not been there before, though his expression remained empty. The man rubbed a thumb against his chin, his eyes partially hidden by swathes of hair as he spoke. "If he does not survive, I will send word before Amelia's awakening. Another will be there to take his place."

"Family?"

"None."

"Then it begins. Do as you have done and when the time comes, you will have what you need. Empty the cellar before the first supply. The next gathering of the horde…bring the man and his reserve with you. I will see to it that Kraven gives you safe passage. Further instructions will be sent through the Line."

Goar bowed his head. "It will be as you say." The lycan picked up the supplies and went upstairs, his bare feet almost silent. The faint sound of steps moving away on the ceiling above.

Left behind, Lucian leaned his head back against the wall and then stood, walking over to the remaining supplies.  _He should have ordered Goar to pass on the deed the moment he smelled alcohol in the cellar. But then who was he to speak?_  He took hold of the remaining sacks, two in his left hand, one in his right, but he did not move, the weight growing heavier on his shoulders. _How many soldiers had he sentenced to death with a word? Countless lycans sacrificing themselves for the pack. The horde. The war. In two years, this man Imre would probably die._ Feeling empty, he tightened his grip on the sacks and headed for the stairs.  _He would not regret his decision until the day after._

_Time to be gone from this place._


	9. That Certain Point

**Chapter IX: That Certain Point**

_Outside…_

Waiting in the stagecoach, the woman focused on her hands, the skin speckled, creased as if she had bathed for hours upon hours. _Soft_.  _Shaking_.  _England. How could she go to England?_ Some of her memories were so certain, so fixed. Others were like dried leaves before winter, crumpling to dust, parts of them missing, blowing away as the wind took them. _She could still see their necks, the women hanging. Eight of them left through the night, their legs swaying in the breeze._ She gripped the seat, battling tears.  _Things would have changed. The people…would have changed._

_But foolish not to have held her tongue._ _Regardless of what she did now, he would force her to learn simply for the challenge of it. Already, she knew so many languages, remembered learning them, seated for hours at a time, reciting them for…a woman. She could see the woman's face. Dark hair and pale skin, a green-eyed woman. She spoke sweetly as an angel with a devil's sword on her back. Her mentor. Another blood-seer. Another warrior. Memories of a hand on her neck, keeping her in line._

_The thought of the warrior calmed her._

_Breathe_ , she whispered almost silently, imagining the hand on her neck, stroking her head softly.  _Breathe_. As if hearing the woman's voice in her mind, she inhaled slowly, counting as she did, trying to order her thoughts. Somehow trying to will her memories into cohesion.

_Remember…_

_Dreams of a ship. Snow and ice. A life spent alone and hunting, far back from the chaos of the coven. She knew she had been alive before the war began. Snatches of her childhood leaping before her like a snow-hare. Who was Hrafn? It meant 'raven' in old Norse. It stood for the 'H' on her side, but the name held no face. For that matter, who was she? In all her memories, why did no one call her by name?_ _What if she had never been named?_ She curled deeper into the seat, disturbed by the thought, the fear returning.  _No memory of birth, only the green-eyed woman with the sword._

Suddenly, the coach swayed to the side and she heard a creak. She looked up at the ceiling, anxious at the thought of the driver climbing from his perch.  _Why would he do that? What did he want?_ She tried to peer out the window, but there was no sign of him. Outside, she heard the horses pawing the ground, the soft creak of leather straps and bits being adjusted. It was probable the lycan was just caring for the horses, making some movement or other to soothe them. But with Lucian gone, if he decided to try anything, there would be little she could do to stop him.

Not that he would  _want_  to do anything.

She exhaled, looking away from the window, the faint reflection of her wrinkled face.  _She had almost forgotten._  It was so strange not to see herself. If she closed her eyes, she could remember.  _Smooth skin, blue eyes from the Norse father, the cheekbones of her Sámi_   _mother. The memory of her mother forcing a bone-comb through the black tangles, braiding her hair like rope and then sending her out to scrape hides. Even if her hair grew back, she would be hard-pressed to find herself wanted by anyone, let alone a brawny fresh-faced lycan. The one benefit to being old in a den of lycans._

Opening her eyes again, she looked around the empty stage-coach, letting her foot tap listlessly on the wooden floor. The botany book was still lying on the seat across from her. Almost tempted to pick it up and skim, she let it lie, afraid that Lucian would open the door the moment she touched it. He seemed _…_ unpredictable, and it would be stupid to get her head ripped off simply because she was holding his favourite book. Jaded, she touched the latch of the window, but did not open it. Her body was still not used to being awake and the inside of the stage-coach was stifling.

She looked at the door, both wishing and fearing that it would open.  _Lucian had been gone for some time. She did not want him to return, yet the sooner he came back, the sooner they could leave._ She shivered, looking at the book again, remembering how his face had turned when he was angry.  _What was she thinking, talking back to her captor? Had he even reali_ s _ed? Of course, he had not. She was afraid of him. So much fear. She needed to hold her tongue._  She had almost tricked herself into believing she spoke with a sane individual, but his rage had shown him for what he was…

_One moment an ill-tempered man lying back in the shadows, and the next…a feral beast, turning so quickly, only for a second, his teeth growing sharp, nails unleashing and retracting. The neck curling forward, the grimace of an animal, a contortion of bones realigning themselves before the shirt could tear._

_Afterwards picking up the book as if nothing had occurred, every tale she had ever heard of him leaping forward. It was worse when they were rabid. It was the kind of madness that was not even aware of itself. The man was…ruthless…insane._ For her own sake, she would not anger him again, even if he spoke amicably.  _Too much danger._

She froze, her fingers poised on the leather…

_Steps from outside…_

_o…o…o_

Touching the wall one last time, Lucian stepped outside the inn, broken windows and bleak gloom all around.  _No wonder Goar had taken to drinking. The inn was bloody depressing without Hajna._  The streets were still empty, the stagecoach facing the same direction. A few lights off in the distance, but most folk in their beds already.  _Did no one think to turn the coach around?_  Vaguely irritated, he tossed the last supply-sacks up to Raze, the lycan catching all three with a soft grunt of appreciation, sniffing the contents with a mild grin before depositing them in the stage-coach trunk at the back.

Goar was already sitting on the front carriage-box, the bottles of blood still clutched to his chest, the reins in his left hand. The man had donned the grey coat Lucian had discarded, his face mostly concealed by lanky hair and a grimy scarf around his neck.  _For the next two hours, he would be driving the stagecoach. Though Raze had offered to drive, once they reached Budapest, it would be all too easy for bystanders to recall a gargantuan, muscled man of dark skin. Best if his subordinate remained out of sight until they reached the docks._ He approached the carriage-box and looked up at Goar's pallid face, the clear sky behind. It was a pity there had been no opportunity to strengthen their ties, perhaps even share a drink. Never enough time in this life.

"Farewell," he murmured, offering his hand.

"For the journey," Goar answered musingly, handing the bottles over to Lucian, mimicking a toast with each one, his eyes showing brown for the first time. The lycan gave a disheartened smile and then held out his palm. Nodding in understanding, Lucian clasped Goar's hand, the firm grip of one alpha bidding farewell to another. He tightened his grip once more and then stepped back. _In all likelihood, it would be the last time they would speak before the gathering of the horde. There would be no opportunity within the city._

Secretly, he was grateful to be leaving the pack-leader's presence, in spite of the ties he wished to strengthen. This area had become a haven for depression, and he had long-since thrown such emotional baggage from his shoulders.  _Everyone suffered loss in this world._   _Memories he did not wish to dwell on._ Brisk, he looked to his left, searching for Raze.  _The headache was coming back…and he felt like yelling at someone. He was tired of people dying. Tired of skulking around in the shadows._ At the side of the coach, an uncomplaining Raze was waiting, the expression on his face stern, his focus on one of the houses overlooking them.

_One of the houses..._

_What had Raze spotted?_

Suddenly on his guard, Lucian glanced behind him at the wooden door and brick siding, the upstairs and downstairs windows, searching for trouble.  _A mob? Deathdealers?_

As his eyes passed over the windows, he heard a faint gasp. The curtains were drawn, but they shifted long enough for him to catch sight of a tear-streaked face, a pair of tiny fists scrunched up against the eyes.  _The abrupt, miserable sound of bawling_. From downstairs, candlelight appeared, the creak of floorboards and the silhouette of a woman getting out of bed. The woman murmured something soft as she moved upstairs, the candle disappearing and then reappearing in the child's room. Putting the candle down by the window, the silhouette picked up the sniffling child, swaying and shushing, softly humming a rather well-known Hungarian folk song.

_Damnation._

_It was a three-year-old girl._

He inhaled wearily, the pain in his head mounting, already having a niggling suspicion of what had occurred. _His face had been under control. Goar was staring morosely at the horses. The only other culprit was Raze._ It took a mild snap of teeth before the gargantuan lycan glanced over, finally realising he was getting a rather intense look of  _'What the hell do you think you're doing?'_

Surprised, the lycan blinked _…_ and then shrugged, shaking his head _._

Unconvinced, Lucian glanced pointedly at the window. The lycan followed his gaze and like the slow cracking of bone, Raze's features suddenly tightened, an incriminating couple of seconds before the skull returned to normal. A moment when any mortal, let alone a three-year old girl, would have been terrified. The man eyed the window and then shrugged, as if there was nothing wrong.

_Perfect._

_The newest all-time low for the lycan ranks, scaring the under-five female population._

"She was just a child," Lucian muttered darkly, pushing past Raze and grabbing the handle. At his comment, the lycan's eyes widened and almost surreptitiously, the man began studying the window, a troubled frown on his face, his lips firmly pressed together. As if he were searching for something. He squinted strangely in the moonlight…and then nodded slowly at Lucian, shrugging his coat closer as he followed. He smelled uneasy.

_And so he should..._

_Whomever that girl was, even if her parents were sceptical, she would have nightmares. She would tell tales. Years from now, there would be another reason for neighbours to throw rocks through the window. Lycans had to be more careful than this._

Feeling all-the-more tense, Lucian yanked the coach-door open and leaped up, taking his seat. The interior seemed darker after the candlelight. The blood-seer was still where he left her. She did not look up, even when Raze clambered up into the stagecoach, the lycan notably glancing at the house one more time before shutting the door. Making sure to give the lycan-master enough space, the larger man took a seat beside him, his imposing stare now locked on the small blood-seer.

_Wonderful._

_She was jumpy enough as it was without Raze losing his_ _face in her presence._ Impatiently, Lucian rapped on the ceiling twice and the stage-coach jerked forward again, rocking them into almost-nauseating movement. He touched a hand to his forehead, gingerly feeling the bridge of his nose, the pressure starting to build again.  _Almost fifty-six hours without sleep. He could feel it behind his eyes. Exhaustion. He knew Raze would keep watch over the woman, but he did not trust the situation yet…_

 _Like a stuck knife, tension all around them._ On his right, Raze was plainly making an effort to impress, his jaw sternly forward, moonlight reflecting off the irises. Head down, the blood-seer seemed placid enough, her hands folded on her lap, but the scent of her fear was mounting

Lucian glanced over to the seat beside her, the one closest to the door.  _The rapidly-vanishing impressions in the leather betrayed her movements. Like the child, she should not have been so obvious in her spying._  His gaze flicked back to the woman, contemplating the situation.  _There was nothing he could do to make her more comfortable in Raze's presence, but perhaps she would feel better with food in her body. She had not eaten for almost eighteen hours. Not good in her condition._  Removing the bottles from beneath his arm, he gripped one of the stems and held it out to her. She looked up, the tilted eyes of a startled deer.

"Are you hungry?" he asked in Russian, gesturing with the bottle.

She shook her head, looking away quickly, the deer caught by wolves, the scent of fear multiplying on itself, as if he were going to bash the bottle across her head for saying no. Even Raze glanced over at him for a split second. He frowned, shrugging the glance off, irritated now that he was under scrutiny.  _Nothing. He had done nothing, only offered her a bloody bottle._

"Take the bottles then," he said quietly, not in the mood to carry some vampire's feeding blood for the next two hours.

Nodding passively, she quickly took the one bottle and the other, taking care not to touch his hand. Again she looked away, almost melding the bottles with her shirt, the skin white across her knuckles. The way she was clutching the stems, it was as if the dead could not pry her fingers from the glass. Already, the tension was settling, Raze smelling appeased by the woman's passive nature…

_…but it troubled Lucian._

_He knew she was starving. She was like a broken horse. More than broken. They were not even at the den yet. What was this? Trauma?_

"Age?"

"I do not know," she said, so softly he had to lean forward.

"Date of Branding?"

She shrugged. "I do not know."  _Even softer._

"Do you know if you can learn English now?" he inquired irritably, crossing his arms, having an inkling what her answer would be. His moment of 'leaning back' ruined by the sharp poke he felt in his backside.  _What the hell?_  Sitting up, he craned his head back over his shoulders and eyed the seat.  _Bloody Theophrastus._  Picking up the book, he shoved it further to his left and again, leaned back.  _The soft touch of leather. Much better._  Aware that he was the only one fussing with his seat, he coughed tightly and returned his attention to the woman.

She had not answered yet.

Vacantly, the woman was staring at the book. Folded over the bottles, the hint of tears unshed.  _Any minute now and she'd start crying._ He coughed again and she looked up, inhaling shakily, the little blood in her cheeks fading fast as if she had done something deplorable by looking at his book. Dangerous. Almost shaking herself, she swallowed and nodded twice, hugging the bottles closer. _A tear?_

_She was crying?_

_Again?_

_Right_ , thought Lucian, looking away and coughing a third time, trying to keep his head level.  _There was no longer a hint of tension from his subordinate. Raze was smelling pleased as a sire watching a cub take her first step. Not that his face had changed, glaring at what would always be a prisoner in his eyes._

_Time for a more forward approach._

Considering how best to phrase his reproof, Lucian rested his hand near the window and then tapped it… "If I told you to break those bottles and eat the glass, would you do it?"

She froze, the bottles close to her chest, the tightening of skin around her eyes. Looking up, she began to shake her head in pleading, the fear scent rising. The tears were starting to flow down her chin, dripping onto the bottles.  _Just as he suspected. Why was she so afraid? Somehow this woman believed him cruel enough to force her to eat glass. In theory, it was fine by him, but her lack of retort left a surprisingly sour taste on the tongue. She had been so...lively before._

"Because I suspect you would  _not_ ," he said grimly, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "…and I would not order you to do it. You see?"

Wiping her face against her sleeve, she nodded quickly.

_Too quickly._

_She did not see._  He looked out the window.  _Perhaps if she could take it as a conversation._ "What I mean is that it is good that you understand submission, but…" He considered his wording, playing with the window latch. "…a  _passive_  approach can wear thin. Perhaps we will speak further on lycan etiquette once we are aboard the ship, but as it stands, there is  _one_  thing I cannot abide with and that is…"

" _Ship?"_

"…interruptions."

She blanched, the red coming back into her wasted cheeks, a fresh batch of tears threatening to break free. She looked like a blood-less chicken with her head on the block, but he had to be firm if his words were to have any effect.

"Interruptions aside," he amended tightly, fighting the tiny pull of amusement at the corner of his lips. " _…_ I am warning you now, I do not abide with false mannerisms. There is no room for fickleness or artificiality within my pack."  _Bold words. In his lifetime, he had been false, fickle and artificial, which made him a hypocrite…but it was better to start his followers on utopian ideals rather than the truth of lycan politics._

She said nothing, her throat looking strained, so he continued _…_

"And while compliance is a welcome trait in prisoners, consider yourself as a step  _above_  the common prisoner. You are an  _asset_ —a golden apple on the plains of this everlasting war. No one will harm you, so you would do well to speak openly and without fear. If you disagree with something, be bold and express your views. You will not be silenced for using your mind, and you will not be killed for having a backbone." He smiled in all sincerity. "Do you understand?"

_That should do it._

He tapped his thumbs together, waiting for her agreement, more interested in his own speech than her answer. _It was essentially the one he'd given at the Parisian den, but he had changed it about halfway. Naturally, there was still open distrust on her face_ … _but that was excellent. Open distrust._ _Honesty._

She opened her mouth hesitantly, a faint and very tired croak coming from throat. "You… _want_ me to speak my mind?"

"To a certain point, yes."

She folded herself closer to the bottles and then leaned back, the far-off look of someone meditating on words. She was thinking, the scent changing slowly. Still the fear, terror, foreboding…the lack of trust…but she was curious as well. _Come on, where was the backbone?_  "To a certain point," she repeated softly.

He nodded encouragingly. "To a certain point."

 _She was getting it._ _This was going well._  He saw the woman exhale, breathing in and out, her lips moving silently… _bloods, she was counting to ten in Latin. A prisoner after his own heart, her neck, her body relaxing with each number. She was letting go, the tension falling from her back._

 _Excellent_ , he thought.

She sniffed, the last of her tears gone _…_ and then suffered that slight narrowing of eyes just before a woman started to argue. The lips compressed, the cheeks shaking with anger _. One who no longer cared if she was executed…_  "Exactly  _what_  point,  _lycan_ - _master_ , because if I say something and you do not like it, you end up raging like a wounded bear with shrunken testi- _…_ "

" _Well…_ done," he said, cutting her off sharply with a grimace of teeth.  _At least he could rest easy knowing that under all that fear, she was still the same sanctimonious cu…that is to say, creature he'd been dicing words with all evening._  "You  _found_  the point. Now drink the blood and get some rest. We'll discuss this further on the ship."

Cheeks flushed, the woman immediately clamped her mouth shut, her jaw tightening with frustration.  _A woman whose nature was not compliance, she was clearly feeling…rebellious._ Holding herself a little bit more upright, visibly forcing herself to look at him, swallowing the rest of the no-doubt-brilliant argument she'd been about to unleash about bears. The knuckles white with anger rather than fear. The flicker of brilliant blue, the eyes of the seahawk.

_Backbone._

_Much better._

Pleased with himself, Lucian relaxed back into the seat.  _For the next two hours, unless she drowned herself in blood, his work here was done. And with a mouth like that, she might even fit well in the den._

_Except…_

He sat up again.

… _two hours could be a long time with Raze glaring._

Searching to his left, he found Theophrastus lying untouched, the spine looking a little worse for wear.  _Perhaps there was one more thing he could do._ Picking up the book, he tossed it onto the facing seat, approximately a foot from the woman's elbow. She blinked, peering down at the book as if it were a trap.

_A trap?_

_It was only botany._

Laughing softly at her distrust, Lucian closed his eyes, crossed his arms and leaned his head back, his laughter fading away, turning into a yawn.  _Maybe it was a trap. The first section was rubbish, but once you got to the plants, it could be quite engaging._ In moments, his head started to loll against the side-board, his shoulder providing a not-entirely-comfortable perch to rest upon. He exhaled, sinking deeper into his exhaustion, his final thought drifting up through the bleak.  _The problem with short hair was there was nothing soft to lie back on..._

Within seconds, he was fast asleep.


	10. Bottles of Blood

**Chapter X: Bottles of Blood**

_Almost two hours later._

Blearily, Lucian woke up, his back stiff on the seat, his arm fast asleep, the heavy hand of Raze shaking him by the shoulder. Almost snapping, he shrugged the hand off, making a half-hearted attempt to raise his head, squinting around him. _His vision was blurry, the vague sense of the ceiling above. No scent of danger from Raze._ Somehow he had ended up splayed across both seats, his boots off, his head lying on something soft.  _Raze's coat, by the scent._  Yawning, he let his head fall back, freeing his arm from under himself and curling up again.  _The nap had only made him drowsier, but at least the headache was gone. The air felt colder than before, the stage-coach moving at the same pace, the pebbly sound of wheels turning on cobblestone. They must be nearing the city already. Any second now, Raze would be shaking him by the shoulder again. Dangerous to be sleeping this close to their destination._ Finally, he sat up, his hair out of sorts, yawning and stretching the neck muscles.  _He had been dreaming, running from something._

_Where was…_

… _huh?_

Rubbing his eyes, he let his vision adjust, shades of blue and silver emerging from the darkness, a startling scene spread out before him. The curtains had been drawn across the windows, and the blood-seer was curled up into a tiny ball, Raze sitting beside her, stern as ever, but now holding the two bottles of blood. One of her arms was folded under her head, the other wrapped around Theophrastus, her finger stuck between the pages as a place-marker. Her head was right next to Raze's knee, yet she was fast asleep, smelling content as a groomed cat next to its mother _. Except its mother was a werewolf._ Somewhat taken aback, Lucian squinted at her and then eyed Raze.

Raze grimaced suddenly. "I…she fell asleep…and the bottles would have fallen." His gravely voice was coming out surprisingly muted.

"Did I  _say_  anything?" Awkwardly, Lucian scratched the back of his neck, fighting the smirk growing on his face.

"No," the man conceded broodingly.

He shrugged as if to say  _'there you have it'_  and started looking for his boots. As expected, they had been placed neatly on the wooden floor. He pulled them on one after the other, making sure the trousers covered the leather. Shaking off the tiredness, he stretched his left arm out, feeling numbness along some of the fingers, the result of having slept on it for over an hour. He frowned at the closed curtains, finding his watch and checking the time.  _8:39 pm._   _Not too bad. They were still on schedule._

"You heard the knock?"

Raze nodded, meeting his gaze and then looking away. "Two minutes ago." _If Goar had knocked on the ceiling two minutes ago, then it was approximately eighteen minutes before they reached the first district. Soren would be waiting for them there._

"She drank something?"

"Half a bottle. Passed right out."

"Good."

Lucian kept working his arm, trying to get feeling back in it.  _They should probably wake the blood-seer, though she looked ever so comfortable curled up beside Raze. He'd expected there to be tension while he slept, but instead, Raze had become the bloodseer's personal nursemaid now that the opportunity had presented itself. Probably one of the fiercest lycans in his horde._ He glanced to his left.  _Oh no, Raze's coat was all crumpled. Whatever were they to do?_  Forgetting his arm, Lucian casually picked up the coat from the seat…

"Is this  _yours_ , Raze?"

Raze said nothing, brutally staring ahead.

"Because that was the finest sleep I have  _ever_  had." Frowning thoughtfully, Lucian shook the garment out. "I swear, it was like being on clouds, the perfect pillow. Leather is so yielding. Or maybe it's the scent." He sniffed the garment, squinting and holding the coat up higher as he investigated. "Parched horse-hair, axle-grease…and… _mmm_ ,  _tobacco_. If I had a mother, I'd want her to smell just like that." Tenderly, he began to fold the coat, glowering over the creases… "I'll keep this until we get to the ship. With a good iron, I should be able to get the wrinkles out…"

Raze reached out and  _swiped_  the coat from his hand, stuffing it under his arm. "You were tired."

"Tired of being  _unloved?_ "

Growling softly, the lycan threw the coat at him.

"Soft and sweet as a newborn," Lucian smirked, catching the coat and flinging it right back. Raze caught the garment, aiming for the lycan-master's face, still making an attempt to keep his voice down…

"I was trying to…"

Lucian ducked, snapping the coat out of the air. "Raze, you took my  _boots_  off. If that's not genuine affection, then we might as well throw your new friend out the window and call it a day…"

"She is  _not_  my new…"

"…friend and frankly, it's  _adorable_. Not that I'm jealous," Lucian muttered, rolling the coat into an rumpled ball and abruptly chucking it in the centre of the stagecoach floor. Laughing softly, he looked at the beaten coat and then at Raze, resting his hands behind his head and daring him to pick it up with a raised eyebrow _. They would still have to have that discussion later regarding Raze's conduct towards prisoners, but the lycan knew he had redeemed himself somewhat. It was the rare moment when Lucian admitted he held some appreciation for his subordinate's efforts at keeping him comfortable._ Raze was rapidly losing his sombre demeanour as well, the lycan starting to laugh as he realised what Lucian was doing…

 _Penny in the pan_ …

_…or Victoria's Head, as some lycans called it._

_It was a popular children's game among the lycans at the London Den. Place a penny in the centre of a pan, the first one to grab it wins. As with most games however, there was an element of cheating involved and more often than not, the first one to grab the penny usually got kicked in the groin as well. A test of speed, dexterity, and how quick one could dodge a blow._

Eying the coat, Raze licked his teeth and then put the bottles to his left side, sitting forward, his hands on his knees. Lucian remained where he was, but tensed his arms, still smiling and again shrugging.  _Go ahead._ Raze edged his left knee forward. Lucian considered the man's neck, watching the veins. _They would both dart for the coat, but he was smaller than Raze, so he would reach it first. But then he'd have to dodge, which meant Raze would likely attack from the left…or the right? Probably right. More space to get around, plus it would force him to…_

The blood-seer sat up.

Suddenly they were both staring at the curtains, grimly pretending they had not just been arsing around, Raze quickly retrieving his rumpled coat from the ground.  _Thank God they were speaking English_ , thought Lucian, his reckless moment of cheer quieting.

The woman seemed to be oblivious to their game however. She yawned loudly, looked woozily at the book, mumbled the page number and then crawled closer to the window. He squinted. She was almost swaying in her seat. She turned to face Raze, holding her arms out for the blood. Sombre, the lycan handed the bottles over and then crossed his arms. There was no longer a trace of a smile on Raze's face. The stagecoach was making more turns. They were nearing the first district of Budapest.

"We will be stopping soon," Lucian grunted in Russian, lowering his hands to the seat. "No spying. Take a seat on the floor, stay out of sight and keep silent. If you compromise this endeavour, I will leave you behind. Agreed?"

"Agreed," she nodded, slurring the word a bit, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Keeping the bottles steady, she stood up shakily and lowered herself to the wooden floor, the book left on the seat. Strangely, the woman was having some trouble with her balance. Like the book, she looked a little worse for wear. Barefoot and skinny, the breeches and shirt ill-fitting.  _At least she was being assertive with her answers. Not terrified, not ill-mannered…a little shaky, but assertive._

More concerned with his schedule, Lucian reached into his pocket, drawing his watch out.

_8:49 pm._

_The boat would be leaving at half past nine._

_A few more minutes to waste before they reached the district border._ Pocketing the watch, he played with the window-latch again, feeling somewhat tempted to peer out the window as they neared the first district. Tempted to see the changes wrought upon Budapest since the 1896 Millenium Exhibition _…_

 _Almost three years ago, he had read about it in the papers, scouring the London press, keeping the clippings in a desk in his study._   _So many changes._   _The construction of the Francis Joseph bridge, the new underground metro system, the Fisherman's Bastion with its seven towers. All the industry of a millenium washing upon an ancient city. Once they reached the docks, t_ _hey could probably even see the new Parliament building being constructed across the river. Over two hundred meters long, it was said to have six hundred and ninety-one rooms, white neo-gothic turrets, golden statues and stained glass windows._ _He highly doubted all the statues were gold, but that was the rumour._

He ran his hand through his hair again, trying to smooth it down somewhat. _It irked him having to appear in front of vampires without clean clothes or proper hygiene._  Raze appeared ready, his coat back on, his neck taut, while across from him _…_

_That was strange…_

The woman was now resting her head on the seat, her fingers sluggishly tip-tapping away on the green bottles like playing music on a pianoforte. Yawning again, she reached up behind her and found the book, opening it on her knees and flipping to the front, squinting at the frontispiece illustration. The picture did not seem to be to her liking and grimacing, she began to flip the book like a fan, searching through the pages for illustrations rather than words.  _Not an ounce of tension in her body. She might look rough, but the sleep had done a world of good for her. She even smelled content._

_Really content._

He frowned, sitting forward… "What page are you on?"

"I am  _flipping_." Her tone was matter-of-fact. Her voice was still scratched and harsh, but he was steadily growing used to the sound.

"Are you enjoying the book?"

" _No_ ," she said insolently, letting her legs drop straight, crossing them at the heel, the book falling as she leaned a bit more into the corner. Raze was scowling at her tone. It was strange seeing an old woman with the mannerisms of one used to being young. She seemed on the verge of falling asleep again, but sniffed lazily, raising her head up… "Do you always fidget so much when you sleep?"

"Yes," he answered tersely.  _Why were her pupils dilated?_

"Were you dreaming?"

"No."

"Liar," she said languidly, uncorking one of the bottles and taking a healthy swig, her fingers no longer trembling. The blood seemed to wake her up a bit more and she exhaled with deep satisfaction, corking the bottle and looking up at him. "Why are we stopping so far from the docks?"

"What makes you think we're not already there?" He replied guardedly, scrutinising her and getting off his seat, crouching down and keeping his balance on the moving floor.  _She was being very blunt._  He sniffed the air around her.  _Dust. Blood._  He touched her forehead with a palm.  _Cold. Not abnormal._

"Because I'm quick…" she sighed heavily in Russian, curling her legs up again to give him room, her head starting to droop against his palm. "…and you're dead. The only reason you want me to hide is so you can…talk to someone. You require passage. No spying means someone secret." Like a pair of dolls, she hugged the bottles closer. "If it were a lycan, it would not matter. Mortals do not hinder…which means you're dealing with another vampire. A traitorous exile…" The blue eyes were starting to glaze, but she hissed suddenly, frowning piercingly at him. "…or a  _Bloodless coward_."

"Give me the bottles."

"They're  _mine_."

"Raze, hold her…"

She kicked out, but he grappled the blood from her hands, leaving Raze to keep her still, getting back onto his seat and turning the bottles, hurriedly searching for the labels. The woman was drunk as a fish swimming in vodka, her arms trying to claw at him, her voice harsh and loudly hissing…  _No labels_. He pulled the cork out of one, sniffing it.  _Blood_.  _A few spices. It smelled alright._  Swishing the bottle, he took a cautious sip, ignoring the woman's cry of protest. It tasted like…

… _ugh_.

_Not good._

He glanced at Raze…"You didn't smell her breath?"

"Can  _you_  smell it?" Raze grunted, holding her arms and looking down.

"I can  _now_ ," Lucian replied sharply, gesturing to the seat. Raze pulled her up, laying her out, taking his coat off again, forcing her to lie back on it. Her teeth had sharpened and she was weakly trying to bite him, except the jaws kept clamping on air.  _The woman was turning into more trouble than she was worth. It was not a well-known nickname, but 'bloodless coward' was synonymous with Kraven among the lycans. How the hell did she know that?_

"You told her?" Raze grimaced, his gravely voice deepening.

" _Of course_ not," Lucian scowled in answer. He was still trying to find a date on the bottle, his fingers running along the glass.  _An old system used by lycans when they bottled blood._   _Embedded dots, hard to see, but he should be able to find it with his fingers. Numbers in a four-dot matrix. There had to be…something. Everything was smooth._ He felt texture along the bottom of the bottle, closing his eyes for a moment.

 _One dot…_  
Two dots on a diagonal…  
Three dots in an L…  
Four dots…

_…and a B._

_Oh, that was…_ _disgusting._ _1754\. Bikavér._ _I_ _t was the lycan's version of the Chinese '1000-year-old egg'. The kind of drink that should come in a tiny sip, not half a bloody bottle. It meant Bull's Blood in Hungarian. A genuine wine among mortals and a play on words among the immortals._   _Where the hell had Goar found a genuine bottle of lycan Bikavér? No wonder the lycan had been holding them carefully._

"Check her pulse," he ordered rashly, leaving the bottles on the seat, running his hands through his hair again, almost pulling the scalp.  _Damnation, why did something always go wrong?_ Obedient, Raze crouched on the floor, enormous in comparison to the tiny blood-seer, keeping her jaw closed with one hand, two fingers on her wrist. She was still mumbling groggily, vaguely struggling against the hand.  _How could she drink half a bottle?_ _Was her tongue not working?_

"When did she drink it?"

"After you slept. She complained about the taste, but I thought it was just trouble-making." Raze was speaking in an quiet tone, but his voice sounded gruff, the deep rumble being the closest the lycan ever got to sounding unnerved. "Slow pulse." Releasing the woman's wrist, the lycan sat heavily, his one arm managing to hold the woman down. Her mumbles were getting quieter, but still loud in comparison with the silence they would need from her in less than three minutes. Grim, he seemed to be considering something, looking at his coat _…_ "She knows too much, Lucian."

"A blood- _seer_  that  _knows_  too much," Lucian repeated with a mirthless laugh, looking up with a frown. "I want you to  _think_  about that sentence, Raze. Get back to me when you have a better point."

Raze shook his head angrily. "The sarcasm is unnecessary,  _Lucian_. She knows your name. She is old, not foolish. If she knows you are alive, she knows who has lied about you." The lycan seemed to have brooded over this point for some time, his logic the result of two hours of silence. "The blame lies on  _Tanis_. Tanis should never have used your name in her presence, but she is the one that will compromise us."

"You seem remarkably  _protective_  of my name, considering that you keep  _dropping_  it about,  _Raze_ ," Lucian gritted tightly, sitting back, trying to demonstrate calm by pulling his watch out again.  _8:57 pm._  "She knew my name before Tanis told her, and that was my fault, not hers."

" _How?"_

He scowled at the lycan for a moment. "…I let my age slip."

"You  _told_  her?"

"I may have called her  _young."_

" _Why?_ "

"I was being  _ironic_ ," Lucian growled, irritated by the lycan's ability to pinpoint his carelessness. "Now be quiet and let me think." _They would be stopping any second. Though not on par with lycans, vampires still had an astonishing sense of hearing. He only needed five minutes of silence. Hopefully, she passed out soon, otherwise by the end of the night, he would be helping Goar drown himself in the Danube._

The stagecoach began to slow.

He glanced at Raze and the lycan immediately covered the woman's mouth, the angry mumble turning into a quiet whisper.  _Still too loud._  Standing up, Lucian pulled the coat from underneath her neck and laid it over her head, ignoring the piercing blue eyes, whispering to Raze…"Keep track of the pulse. Five minutes. If she starts to suffocate, remove the coat, but she stays silent. I don't care how you do it, but  _no_   _hitting_. If she is dead when I get back, you can find another den." Raze nodded grimly at the orders, his hand firm under the coat, finding the the woman's wrist again with his free hand.

Inhaling resolutely, Lucian collected himself.

 _Composure was required for this meeting. Regardless of whether he held more power, he had to appear in control in front of Kraven's minions. His accomplice could not hesitate based upon Soren's word. They both had to trust in each other_ …

… _even if one of them was smuggling illegal goods behind the other's back._

The stagecoach came to a complete stop, three shallow rasps from above, the scraping of the horse-whip against the roof as they slowed, the signal that Soren was not alone.  _The last person he felt like seeing, but business was business._ Confident and forcing an expression of ease on his face, Lucian turned the handle and stepped outside, slamming the door firmly behind him before anyone would have a chance to see what the stagecoach held.  _Five minutes for the meeting._

Soren was waiting on the street.

And so was Kraven.

_Damn._


	11. The Vulture of St. Matthias

**Chapter XI: The Vulture of St. Matthias**

_Two minutes had passed._

Ever tolerant, Lucian focused on the hard knuckles of his opponent, seething eyes, the silver-plated walking-stick brandishing closer to his face.  _Endless prattle going on and on._ Moments like these made him question the wisdom of joining forces with a traitor. The more the man raged, the more he betrayed himself as a coward. A vulture that had been pushed too far, the posture slouched, the neck leaning forward slightly.  _One of these days, the spine would crack_ …

"Three days behind schedule!" Kraven seethed through his teeth. He was a lanky vampire, his hair black with an uncharacteristic gloss, his accent marred by the tendency to over-exaggerate every word, every setback. There was almost a dent in the cobblestone where he'd been pacing. " _Three_   _days!_ How do you expect me to deal with this kind of… _"_

"I do _not_ , cousin," he interrupted. "Now get to the point. I have a ship to catch."

_It was the wrong thing to say._

_He knew that._

As always, there was a shocked interval as Kraven processed the words, the face starting to contort around what could only be described as an pubescent explosion. Counting the seconds away, Lucian made good use of the time, unobtrusively scrutinising his surroundings…

 _It was the first time he had seen St. Matthias Church in almost twenty years, the courtyard empty save for themselves. All surprisingly eerie, considering their guise as the most feared creatures of the night._  Above him, the church of the lady rose out of the scaffolds, the stone entrance flanked by timber and workman's tools. The workers had finished rebuilding it in the last year, the neighbouring buildings torn down, the walls recreated in their original form. Only the final touches left in the aftermath. _Magnificent_ , he thought. His gaze did not stop there. In the distance, the fires were lit around Buda Castle, hinting at the destruction of the royal seat almost fifty years ago. _Unsurprisingly, the Hungarians had rebuilt that as well...as soon as the timbers had collapsed. Of course, the new design was far more austere than the previous Baroque one. Then again, the architects were no longer running after a Viennese queen._

Exhaling, Lucian looked forward again.  _As if focusing on architecture could change the air of this meeting…_

… _or the spit._

"A  _ship_?" The vampire sneered in his face, spittle flying, fists on the verge of shoving him back against the coach. Clearly, the only thing stopping him was the memory of the last time he had struck the lycan master. Or  _almost_  struck him. "That  _ship_  would have been gone if it were not for me."

Lucian checked his watch. "We do what we must, Kraven."

 _Oh yes, we do what we must,_ he thought.  _Another fleck of spit landed on his skin._   _It was taking all of his willpower not to wrestle that stick away and use it as a stopper on the vampire's throat._

" _We_?" Kraven snarled, snapping the walking stick against the cobblestone. The two pieces fell to the ground, rolling beyond their circle. "Do you have any idea what I had to go through to set this up? What I  _always_  have to go through?"

Lucian did not answer, merely wiping his thumb across his jaw, passing his gaze over Soren and the twelve deathdealers around him, all of his boredom showing and only a margin of his irritation.  _That one he wanted to hang from the bell tower._  They were still standing too close to the coach, his ears picking up every creak, every drunken moan from behind the door as Raze briefly lifted the coat.  _Keep talking, Kraven. Keep talking loud._ Seemingly unaffected, he gestured to the church. "Shall we?"  _It was their oldest meeting place._

Kraven shook his head, waving his hand impatiently. "We'll talk in the coach."

_This was not happening._

Lucian smiled warmly.  _Their truce did not allow for the smuggling of exiles out of the country, particularly without consent. Rather than let her go free, the deathdealers would probably just kill the woman right here._

"Oh come now…" He raised an eyebrow, keeping his place in front of the door.  _Another muffled burble. The vampires had to be deaf not to hear it._  "Twenty years, Kraven. Let us observe some manner of dignity in this reunion." He could feel his left eye twitching.

"I want you  _gone_."

"I have no wish to stay,  _cousin_ ," He almost bit the word. "…but I have been travelling for three days in that damned coach. The church is a needed respite."

"Fine," the vampire muttered suddenly with a pompous shrug, kicking up surprisingly little fuss now that it was clear Lucian would not move without his agreement.  _What was the world coming to that he was actually waiting on Kraven's opinion? As if that would occur a second time._

Hands behind his back, Lucian nodded in appreciation and began to amble towards the church, allowing Kraven to walk first.  _He needed to placate his ally._  "I would have sent word, cousin, but there was an unforeseeable casualty on the road." The lies came easily. "The matter was taken care of quickly enough, but the aftermath required some… _inducement_  before the involved party would be silent. You understand?"

"Of course," the vampire shrugged, his jaw jutting forward, his back straightening. The distinct expression of one that was  _used_  to the concept of murder for the sake of silence, his words streaming too quickly… "I just want this…over and done with as soon as possible, cousin…"  _A shoddy attempt at being diplomatic. Never a soldier. Never a diplomat._  "…it affects my conduct."  _Like a caricature of what Kraven assumed a vicious traitor would look like. A youngster forever trying to prove himself as strong enough, smart enough…cruel enough._

"It's understandable," he agreed smoothly without thinking.  _Five minutes had definitely passed. No going back now. Frustrating that Kraven would appear for this meeting, but the need to talk meant there was strong incentive. Even a bloodseer was not as important as that._

"You must be anxious to know why I am here…"

"Naturally…" Lucian murmured distantly, masking his displeasure as they approached the west façade, more shadows looming around the building. It was a second cohort of deathdealers, all of them dressed in the brownish-grey of street walkers, none of their faces familiar. Soren moved to join them, leaning against the church exterior, observing him without fear.  _Never any fear or emotion on Soren's face._   _Soren with his glass eyes, always looking on, emotionless. Soren who had turned the wheel, letting the sunlight fall on his wife's face. He never forgot that. Never. Soren whom he could not help thinking about even as Kraven addressed the reason behind his attendance…_

"As you know, Viktor must choose his …"

Behind them, the stagecoach rocked on the street suddenly, the crude smack of a body hitting the wooden door. The sound of the horses rearing before they were brought under control again. Lucian felt his neck tighten, but he did not turn to look at what happened. Instead he kept walking, for all the world as if nothing strange had occurred.

"Cousin?" Kraven had stopped, staring over his shoulder at the stagecoach, the blue eyes piercing, his sneer growing more threatening.

_Just keep walking…_

" _Cousin!"_

"Yes?" He turned calmly to look at the vampire. He had to play this right, his voice purposefully set in jaded tones, the knowledge of a general who was far too tired to explain the obvious. He could smell it, the sweat, the hostility, the deathdealers all around, Soren taking a step back towards the stagecoach, waiting for Kraven's order. Soothing the horses, Goar appeared as placid as ever, but his eyes had started reflecting.

"The  _coach_ , cousin." The horses were completely still now, a testament to how well they were trained.

"What of it?"

"It  _moved_."

"I'm aware of that."

"So what the hell are you playing at?"

Lucian frowned, turning the question back on the man in an entirely vague manner. "What do you think I'm playing at?" He had no more options, no more words.  _Vague denial_.  _It was a strategy that often worked in political situations, except Kraven was on edge, and therefore unpredictable._ Still scowling, he jerked his head once at the moon before resuming his amble towards the church.  _Likely the vampire would come up with his own strange conclusion for this obviously underhanded situation._

Finally he heard footsteps, long legs striding, ringing out on the cobblestones. The vampire caught up with him easily, venturing his guess with scorn… "You brought  _Raze_?"

"Oh you  _are_  a bright one," Lucian grunted sarcastically, shrugging the man's arm off his sleeve.  _He was going to kill Raze when he got back to that coach._   _Either the bloodseer was injured or she was dead._ He continued as if it were the most mind-numbing thing to even discuss this matter. "…you need not fear, cousin. He only lapses now and again. I am certain the muzzle will hold."

" _Muzzle_?" The vampire missed a step, masking it with a turn. The vulture had taken the bait. "You said he was in control."

" _Yes_ , and if I told you of every lycan that lost control on a full moon, we'd be here until next Michaelmas." In the corner of his eye, Kraven was still gazing intently back at the stagecoach. No matter. The man looked more introspective than phsyically interested in retracing their steps. Touching the wooden frame, he stalked through the western door and deeper into the recesses of the old church. "Now forget the coach. What news?"

" _Forget_  the coach?" The disgruntled voice got louder, echoing into the wide hall. "It is made of  _wood_ , not silver, cousin. What if he gets out?"

"Then you have leave to retrieve him," Lucian murmured with a sinister smile, taking his seat at the last pew, his gaze sweeping to the right and left, taking in all of the changes wrought upon the interior.  _The entire cathedral was redone on the inside as well. He could just make out painted tendrils, the geometric forms making their new mark upon the walls. It was amazing how productive mortals could be in the space of a few years_ …

"There would be no  _retrieval_ ," Kraven sneered, eyeing one of the dusty tapestries. His gaze flicked to Lucian to check his reaction. "He would be executed on sight."  _Like a child, the vampire was trying to get his back up._

"Fair enough." Tranquil, Lucian looked down from the cathedral ceiling and crossed his arms. "Just keep your men back, Kraven, and there won't be a problem."

The vampire stiffened.  _"I would do it."_

 _Right._  Tired of this game, Lucian skipped to the point.  _"_ Do you actually have news?"

Kraven did not seem to hear, once more attempting to mount his high horse. "You cannot change his nature, cousin," he declared boldly, the sound of disgust on his tongue.  _As if he knew anything about the nature of lycans._  "He is too wild, like a lycan before it is tamed…"

"…then cut his head off and put him on a wall. I'll send you the nails myself."  _The vampire went on and on about punctuality, but then took twelve hundred years to get to a point._ He was starting to lose his patience.  _Already Kraven was looking at him sideways, the tension returning._  He waved the look aside. "Now about  _Viktor_ ," he grunted again, stretching his arms out on either side of the pew.

" _Viktor_ ," the vampire blinked…and then nodded to himself. The word seemed to sap energy from his shoulders and slumping, he finally took his seat on the other pew. Unlike the tranquillity of Lucian's bearing, he had buried his face in his hands. "The night before you came. Michaelmas…three nights ago, the final hours of the banquet, Viktor took me aside. He spoke to me, cousin. He revealed to me…his choice for the succession…"

Lucian sat forward. "You are to take charge?"  _All their plans._ "So soon?"  _The elders' choice to split the coven had changed the laws of succession, but Viktor's decision was not to come for another year._

"He gave me a warning. I am closer…" The vampire lowered his hands, raising his head to look across the aisle. "…but there is a hitch."

"A  _hitch_?"

"Selene," Kraven swallowed. "The deathdealer I told you about."

Lucian exhaled, frowning at the pew in front of him. "Selene," he repeated calculatingly. He had never seen her, but it was said…it was said that she was closest to the heart of Viktor. The perfect daughter in private, dutiful and obedient. A killing machine on the streets. He glanced over at Kraven. The man's head was in his hands again. "He has adopted her then?"

"Not officially. He is divided between the two of us. He is…concerned over the repercussions. She is still an outsider to the council. She does not live as the others do. An ascetic." Kraven was losing his cool. His face was contorted, the pale version of jealousy tinged with ire. "Only the deathdealers welcome her presence, yet he considers her potential. She stands out among them…"

_So it was to be the diplomat or the warrior…_

"How long do you have?"

"The next solstice. The council will meet a year from now."

Lucian nodded, touching his hand to the pew, running a finger along it. There was a dent here.  _The problem could have been solved centuries ago, but Kraven's courting ability was based on whether his targets could think or not._ He did not soften his tone. "She cannot be second, Kraven. Your place beside Viktor cannot be compromised."

"You think I do not know that?" Kraven scoffed. "I have been working on it."

"You've been working on it for four centuries," Lucian observed disdainfully, already certain of where this was leading.  _He had already suggested murder more than once, but Kraven had balked every time. And who could blame him? From what he heard, she was exactly his type._ "Has she accepted your  _amorous_  offer then?"

" _Soon_." Turning his lip, Kraven's eyes flashed, glaring at him from beneath the layers of oily hair.  _The vampire was so sullen. So obviously foul._  He was almost whispering it to himself. "I have told you, cousin. It is only a matter of time, but the affection is there. Everyone knows. Viktor knows.  _She_  knows…"

"She knows, she knows…"  _The man had been saying that ages. It had such a pleasant ring to it…_

"She  _does_  know!"

"She  _means_  no," Lucian countered irritably, staring askance at the vampire. "Have some dignity." In answer, the lanky vampire snarled in exasperation, kicking his leg out, the wood of the pew splintering along the surface without breaking.  _Why was that so familiar?_ The rogue memory suddenly flashed before him… _The dent on the pew._

 _Kraven kicking out_ …

He blinked in recognition.  _Of course._

 _The dent on the pew. The last time they met, Kraven had sat on this side of the church._   _The builders must have fixed it. Every twenty years, they fixed it, but then every twenty years, it popped up again. The olders priests must be going livid if they kept track of the timing._ Shaking his head, he felt his second unexpected bout of laughter for the night rising in his throat, the sound resonating cruelly through the cathedral.  _Only silence from Kraven's end, but that was to be expected._ _The vampire could never experience humour at his own expense._  Almost wiping his eyes, he stood up, not bothering to apologise for his wit…

"I have to go, Kraven." His voice was gruffer than it should have been… "You know my thoughts on the matter." He flipped his watch out of his pocket.  _9:13 pm._  It would be tight, but they could still make it. "Anything else?"

" _No_." Kraven shook his head, sullen as ever, the bloodless coward of Ordoghaz.

"Then it's settled. We'll discuss tactics on another occasion," Lucian smiled grimly. "Until next time." Tipping two fingers in farewell, he turned away.  _All things considered, the meeting had gone well._ _His bloodseer was bruised or dead, deathdealers had likely attacked his coach, and he was going to kill Raze when he saw him next. I_ _f he was really lucky, he might run into Viktor on his way to the docks._ _The keyword being 'might.'_

Abruptly, he heard a biting yell calling him back, his  _name...his name of all things_  echoing a dozen times through the cathedral… _"Lucian!"_

 _Lucian_ …

 _Lucian_ …

_His name striking a dreadfully wrong chord._

Biting his tongue, Lucian twisted around, his humour evaporating so quickly it was like unholy incense.  _Anger. Irritation. Raze was one thing, but Kraven_ … _what the hell was Kraven thinking?_  Still as a statue, the vampire remained crouched in his seat, seeming almost abandoned in the church. Left behind. It made the hair on the back of his neck rise.  _The second time the man had tried to rile_ _him up again. Unbalancing him._ _But f_ _or what?_

_He did not have to wait long._

"I know what you want me to do, cousin …" The vampire got up, uncurling his limbs. A brief pause before the vampire continued into the silence, as if he had rehearsed his lines. "…but I have plans as well. I will remind Viktor that he needs me." There was an edge to his voice that had not been there. "…and I will  _not_  have Selene murdered."

" _What's this_ …" Lucian observed just as dangerously, at ease whenever it came to mocking his opponent.  _He could smell sweat coming from the vampire. There were very few times when Kraven stood up to him…truly stood up to him rather than dancing about the point, avoiding the teeth of what they both knew was a terrifying animal._  "…loyalty coming from a  _traitor?_ I'm unused to the phenomenon, Kraven. Advise me on how to deal with it?"

The vampire flushed, narrowing his eyes. "I'd expect you to  _understand_."

"Then you are naïve _._ " _He could feel his teeth growing. The change in his eyesight._

"I will  _not_  have your men purposefully hunting her _._ "

"We all die some day, Kraven. There is little choice in that matter."

"But I have  _plans_  for her."

"You covet her," Lucian snarled. _Like sweetmeats coming from a vulture. Ridiculous to be even arguing over this point. There could be no second to Viktor other than Kraven. The lady's standing therefore had to be lowered by about six feet. It was a simple concept!_ Aggravated, he looked up, searching for strength, the tapestries of the church hanging almost within his reach _. Like all partnerships, one could not move without the other. The vulture had no backbone, so it was up to the wolf to be patient._ Infuriated with the words coming out of his mouth, he finally spoke… "You have  _half_  a year, Kraven. Persuade her if you can, but during that time, plan for the worst. If Viktor chooses her in the end, we do it my way."

_Ambush._

He left, turning his back on the man, stalking angrily out of the church.  _He had never said as much…but it was an insult to the memory of his wife. The perfect circle that Viktor would find another daughter and reinstate her in place of the first. It galled him. Infuriated him…_

_…and it would be his pleasure to order her execution._

_Four centuries of Kraven hammering on about love and she would probably welcome it._


	12. The Rules of Drunken Combat

**Chapter XII: The Rules of Drunken Combat**

_Outside. 9:15 pm._

_The argument had not gone unnoticed._

Deathdealers swarmed the entrance of St. Matthias church like so many flies on a golden altar, backs leaning, legs crouching, watching him from the corner of their eyes.  _They were blocking his way._ Scowling, Lucian stepped from the church's fold, letting the moon do its work, observing with some satisfaction as half the vampires departed, the first cohort slipping away into the shadows without a second glance.

_It was not dread, but efficiency that propelled them. They knew the drill, understood their place in the scheme of things. The meeting was finished. Kraven was alive and well, and if a vampire got too close and had his head ripped off by claws, it would be the vampire at fault._ _Not him. A pity things were never that easy._

It was the second cohort that spelled trouble. Twelve of them still blocking his path, Soren standing to one side watching his trainees.  _They knew he was in a rush_ … _they wanted to see him scramble._ Languidly, Lucian tilted his head and eyed them _._ _Pale, fresh_ … _edible_. They were a sleeker breed than the one before, sombre creatures recently turned and trained to replace those who had fallen in battle. Their faces were impenetrable. _Their first run 'beneath' the underworld, the moment Kraven decided they were ready to know his face. Only the dead knew how they kept their secrecy with so many around him._

His gaze stopped on one in particular.  _Auburn hair which had not faded since its disappearance from the sun. This deathdealer_ … He sniffed the air … _this deathdealer had been human once. There was a grudging fearlessness in his eyes, sullen lips and bared fangs betraying how young he was. How inexperienced._   _Half these vampires were turned as youths, their blood younger than his shirt. T_ _heir loyalty to Kraven, but_ …

He took a step closer to the youth, halting in front of him and sniffing. It was a mirthless smile on his lycan face, he knew that, his teeth growing. He sniffed again.  _Surely this auburn-haired youth had heard the stories? Ruthless creature who never slept, burning the Elder's daughter and eating her bones after the flesh had gone. The moon reflecting in his eyes, did he measure up to their tales…_

"Move."

The youth stumbled back.  _That would be a yes._ To his right, Soren immediately jerked his head. The second cohort backed away, hushed, fading into the shadows, leaving the way free and clear. Lucian sniffed the air one more time…and then stalked off.  _Only an idiot bared food in front of a lycan during the full moon._

Twenty yards away, in the courtyard's centre, the stagecoach remained untouched, guarded by Goar. The man was patiently, but firmly crouching by the door. He stood as Lucian approached, taking hold of the door handle.  _Soren was still watching them, daring to follow despite the tension in the air_. By no small chance, the pack-leader managed to pass directly in front of the lone deathdealer's line of sight. Quickly, Lucian slipped inside the coach, catching his balance before the door shut behind him. He had tripped over something.  _Someone_. He held onto the siding, stripped of moonlight so suddenly, his eyes having to adjust for a split second…

…and when they did, he smiled grimly.

_Not quite what he had expected._

Battered and still breathing, the bloodseer was unconscious on the seat, a nasty bruise spreading across her cheeks…she was  _breathing_. On the floor, nursing a black eye, Raze exhaled dourly and opened his mouth. Swiftly, Lucian raised a curt hand before the man could speak, two fingers curving forward slightly, the index and thumb touching.  _It meant "silence." Or "save it for someone who cares," as most lycans had dubbed it since he'd started using the signal._

He stepped over and around Raze, making up for the lack of space by depositing himself on the left seat again. They could not speak until they left this place. Watching the ceiling, he patiently continued to listen to the exterior of their compartment. Finally, the rickety sound of Goar climbing onto the coachbox, no knock required and the stagecoach bounding into motion without delay. Only a minute later, when he was sure they had passed beyond the church boundaries, did he find it in him to converse with the man…

"Are you a  _lycan_ , Raze?"

"She  _kicked_ me."

"I did not  _ask_  whether she kicked you…" Lucian said softly, trying to keep his voice from resembling death negotiating its way across a river. "…indeed, 'till you said that, I might have construed that you  _let_  her kick you. I might have believed for a spell that  _you_  were at fault, Raze, and that you almost compromised my plans with your ineptitude."

His eyes had turned to slits. Exhaustion paired with an acidic curiousity managing to keep his claws in check.  _He_ _could even profess a certain bewilderment over how this matter had transpired. The bloodseer had slapped Tanis around, but kicking a six foot tall lycan against a door_ …

_…how very bizarre._

Raze grimaced, not even bothering to stand while the coach was in motion. "You are…you are correct, Lucian. The fault was mine. She lost consciousness. I relaxed my grip…" He paused, seeming to contemplate how best to word his embarrassment. "…but she is not as  _weak_  as she looks."

"…and clearly, you are not as strong as  _you_  look," Lucian muttered, raising a finger to his own eye.  _Bruises should be gone within seconds, especially for one as old as Raze._  "Resistance to the moon should  _never_  affect your ability to heal."

"I am aware of that, but she…"

"No ' _buts_ ,' Raze."  _No excuses. Not in this war._  "I expect your control to be better from this point on. End of story.  _Finished_."

The lycan bowed his head, milky-white eyes reflecting without judgment from his profile. He ought to be writhing out of his skin, but perhaps used to the daily barbs, the eyes glanced towards the drapes and then back again, a brutal curiosity now growing. His voice lowering into a rumbling burr peppered with code names.

____The lycan was suspicious of whether they were being followed. The number of vultures lingering at the church. Unsettling_ _the way his cousin had turned up_ _ __. They ought to deal with this newcomer. There ought to be blood for every vulture he paraded in front of them._ _ _ _

_And yet for the life of him, he could neither hear nor care what Raze was saying._ Instead, he could hear air passing out of his lungs. The stagecoach rocking as they turned a corner, sharp, the horses speeding up. The sound of wood driving on cobblestone. Raze had been speaking for twenty-nine seconds. But his eyes were trained on the space in front of him, not really seeing his subordinate.  _He could tell the laudanum was wearing off._   _Every breath getting slower and his desire to breathe passing with it._

"Lucian…"

 _Again, his name._  He blinked irritably, focusing, and then inhaling as he lost it. Realising that he ought to be compelled to explain himself and then simply giving up before he tried. "I am listening, Raze, but there are…"  _How best to phrase his lack of interest_ , he wondered. "…other points on my mind."

_Goar would have to drive faster if they were going to make this ship on time. It was leaving in ten minutes. Ten minutes of avoiding a subject. Ten minutes of small talk. Or ten minutes of silence. Even for such a tiny spell, he did not want silence._

_As always, Raze could sense as much…_ "Any particular point?" the lycan asked.

Lucian stretched, scratching his back, thinking on how to answer.  _He did not want to think anymore. Certainly not on pressing matters._ So rather than admit his head was starting to pound again, he insulted something instead. "I am  _trying_ , Raze, to remember the last time a  _seventy_ year old woman took out a lycan." He could almost taste the barbs on his tongue. Looking past Raze, he considered her frame, slumped on her side, skinny as straw, uglier than sin. "I swear, forty pounds if she's an ounce."

_Ah._

_Raze had taken the hint._

The stony lycan drew himself up. As much as he could in the space of the floor. "Then consider lycan rules, Lucian. Pounds have nothing to do with a well-aimed kick."  _Good. A theoretical argument, the use of trivial debate to clear the mind._ "Had this been a fair fight, I would have been allowed to defend myself."

"Against a seventy year old woman _,_ " Lucian murmured carelessly. His expression said exactly what he thought of that.  _The defence rests._ He pulled his watch out again, letting it dangle from the chain, watching the minute hand.  _9:20 pm._ "You never answered my question, Raze, are you lycan?"

_Another barb._

"You are being prejudiced, Lucian," Raze grunted. His voice was like an avalanche, boulders scraping against one another in a downward spiral. "Our strength is not based on the outward appearance of our bodies. According to our laws, a lycan must always be allowed to defend himself."

"Very well, but since we have already  _established_  that this…" Lucian sniffed, waving a hand at the unconscious woman. "…  _fish-crone_  is handicapped both physically and mentally, your ability to hit her was judiciously handicapped as well. She is drunk, old, and weak. You are the opposite. How was the fight not fair?"

_Yes…_

_…fish-crone._

_The word would do nicely until she gave up her name._

"Because of history," Raze countered. "She may have the body of a crone, but she has the memory of a vampire. A bloodseer, at that. She is aware then how to aim. The handicap was prejudiced."

"The handicap was  _drunk_."

At this, Raze smiled as if he had won the discussion by that singular line. "Combat allows for drunkenness, Lucian. New rules, 1887. Section IX, according to the charter of…" Fluid and keen when shocking people with his knowledge, the gravelly man smoothly switched his language, speaking in the deepest French one could possibly imagine, the perfect accent grinding on the ear. "… _L'_ _Union des Sociétés Lycans de Sports Athlétiques._ "

_USLSA._

_The official lycan sporting society of which Raze was an obsessive member._

Lucian grunted.  _Far be it from him to argue with a registered official of lycan combat._ "Absolute  _tosh,_ " he muttered. Still spread out on the seat, he started dissecting the velvet curtain above his head, picking at the border. "They might do it in France, but not here."  _Even after all these years, it was still remarkably_ … _odd when Raze spoke French._

From the floor, Raze turned a sharp eye on him. The man seemed guarded, his irises growing in their milk-white, his brow darkening. He continued to speak French. "I believe you are mistaken, Lucian…that rule was instigated last year."

" _Pssh_ , maybe in the  _slums_  of Paris …" Lucian replied sourly.

 _He was not really listening anymore._   _The conversation had become tedious the moment Raze mentioned l'USLSA._ _It was a waste of time. An amateur lycan-sports society. No standards. No professionalism._ Preoccupied, he pulled at the curtain, a loose thread winding around his finger, cutting the blood off. As the circulation came to a grinding halt, the nail on his finger began to grow.  _Reflex_.  _Interesting_. He tapped his thumb against the nail.  _Selene, Selene, Selene. How to kill Selene. A matter to think on later._ The watch was still dangling from his hand.  _9:23 pm_.  _They had to make this ship. Seven minutes. The stagecoach was rocking around them, Goar pushing the horses hard._

To his side, Raze was starting to smell like a wounded mistress, a sharp scent of indignation rising up around them, the lycan scowling as if he had said something in dreadfully bad taste. In retrospect, he probably had, but Raze ought to be used to his acidic humour by now.  _Why so sensitive? Did everyone have a bone to pick with him this night?_

" _Quelle horreur…"_  Lucian said, not really listening for an answer. He was more concerned with disentangling his finger, but he suspected Raze would appreciate the effort to ask. " _…what now?"_

The moment  _'what'_  left his mouth, Raze leaned forward, gargantuan, his voice almost long-suffering. "You do not remember? _" He had switched to English now as if it might make an impact._

Lucian shrugged. " _Quoi?"_

_No impact._

His hands became fists. Easily apparent what kind of alpha the lycan would have been had he not dedicated his life to the cause. "I  _told_  you of this matter, Lucian. The lycans are  _aware_  you sleep during the day. They make special accommodations for you. You were not to be disturbed. I was asked on  _multiple_  occasions to…" His fists tightened, the next word coming out like gravel. As if there was a long history of pain and suffering attached to this matter. "… _check_  your opinion. I did and you always answered in the affirmative."

Still unaffected, Lucian frowned. " _What_ matter?"  _It could not be a serious matter if he had paid no attention to it._  He started winding the curtain thread around his finger again.

Jaw like a rock, Raze glowered at him. "Drunken combat in the cellar den. Three weeks pay minimum to get on the waiting list. Once a month, twice in the morning. Twice in the afternoon. Two combatants drink. They fight…winner takes all."

" _The cellar."_  Lucian scoffed, dropping his talon from the curtain, tearing the thread and letting his watch drop on his chest. He started picking at the seat lining. "You're talking about a cellar-fight, Raze, not a sport. Unless pack-leaders vote on the matter, ' _1887\. Section IX_ ' is no excuse for lycans to…" He stopped in mid-sentence, about to say that which actually made him  _hear_  for the first time what Raze was trying to tell him. Four words stuck out.  _Drunken. Combat. Cellar. Den._ Very slowly, he sat up, the growl rising in his throat, his nails digging into the lining.  _"_ … _they are doing what?"_

The stagecoach lurched. Instead of smelling penitent, Raze bestowed him with a look of stern condemnation and then shook his head. Without a single word, the lycan tersely dragged his coat from under the bloodseer's neck, shrugged it on and leaned back against the siding, focusing on the door, obviously ignoring the most powerful lycan in history.

Squinting, Lucian tore his nails out of the seat.  _He would have to reimburse Goar one of these days._  "…are you  _officiating_  these matches, Raze?"

The lycan nodded. Surly. Brooding. Grim.

_Just like that. No remorse…_

_Drunken combat._   _It was an outrage. They were a military unit in the middle of war. These men were soldiers. Warriors. Lycans._  Lucian growled softly, looking down, realising the only thing he was missing in this picture. His watch was no longer ticking. Golden pieces broken, crushed in his claws. The broken minute hand stopped at  _9:27 pm_. He let the pieces fall into his pocket. _Three minutes until the ship sailed, and the stage-coach was already slowing down._

They did not have time now, but Raze was going to get a tongue-lashing the moment they settled on that ship. _Disapproval. Resentment. The headache coming back._  Suddenly, his breath caught.  _Of course, he knew what was happening._  Lycan emotions came at a price, like a seizure, sound fading for a split second, the moment crashing down on him, out of control.

_Lycan memories._

Twelve months ago. _Raze speaking to him. Something about blood-alcohol supplies. Matches. He had been…occupied at the time. A migraine. Thoughts of Barcelona. The den had been having difficulty meeting its quota …_

The memory sped forward.  _This time, seated at his desk trying to settle a scuffle between their contacts in Rome and Venice. During his evening meal, working on a business document to be sent directly to the lycan registry. Raze had mentioned something about officiating over…_

… _matches…in the cellar…_

He blinked again.  _Three months ago. Half-asleep, the laudanum in hand, hearing the door open softly. So the night have been hectic, he might have barked…no, told…Raze that what he did in his spare time was his own affair. That he could do the bloody hell whatever he wanted as long as he kept it to himself. And for that matter, shut the hell up and get out. It was eight in the morning. There were more pressing matters at hand…_

_Like Barcelona._

_Rome…_

_Venice._

The stagecoach came to a halt.

" _You_." He pointed an accusatory finger at Raze. "Pick her up. Settle the account on-board. We will talk about this  _later_."  _Ridiculous, asking his opinion on the matter while he was working, writing, half-asleep, drugged out of his mind on laudanum at eight in the morning. The lycan had known exactly what he was doing._

His eyes no longer reflecting, Raze ground his words, smelling of resentment. He looked  _very_  serious. "Lucian, you  _knew_  about this matter. The den will not take kindly to having…"

"I said, pick her up,  _Raze_ …" He narrowed his eyes. "… _you_  knew I would never have condoned it on a regular occasion. The moment we arrive in the Underground, it stops. Is that  _clear?_ "  _It was an affront to his authority._

He stood, shoving the door open. Moonlight and water, the black waters of the Danube in front him. Goar was already hustling over to the warehouse to get their bags, the ship on its last rigging, ready to be off. He stalked to the back of the stagecoach, flipping the trunk open with a bang and taking the food supplies in hand.  _Drink-fighting in the den. Like the French. Like finding out his entire horde was smoking opium behind his back._

Infuriated, he watched as Raze stepped out of the coach, already striding over to the gangplank, the bloodseer curled in his arms. The man's back was stiff as a board, still smelling all the world as if he'd been wounded. Lucian slammed the trunk shut. That conversation had made things worse.

_So maybe he was not 'in the thick of things' when it came to his own den. Maybe he did not hear every scrap of information Raze brought him. Maybe he did not care to remember the names of his newest recruits…_

… _but then it was not his_ bloody _job. He had the horde to worry about. The lycan registry. The Line. Almost a thousand lycans spread across Europe. During times of war, when it came to the den…food, water, supplies, the barracks, clean up duty, the occasional idiot who wanted to write home, it was Raze the lycans should turn to._

_Not the alpha…_

_…and Raze should have known better than this._

Unable to hide his hunting demeanour, Lucian strode towards the ship, the creaking sound of wood on water drawing him forward, lines and sails flapping in the wind, men shouting orders. A bell started to ring, the final signal, the final call. The name of the lady was painted along the side, the letters wet and weathered with time.

_Marie Therese._

_Older than the steamships that swept up the Danube._

Goar was already on the gangplank, two leather cases in his arms. Almost wistful, the brown-haired lycan stared up the river, dropped the cases on deck and turned around. They passed each other one final time on the gangplank, Lucian slapping the man on the back in farewell before moving on up, stepping over the side and onto the deck. The familiar sound of his boots hitting wood, bringing back memories from another lifetime.  _Years spent in Morocco. Years spent on the sea._

He was surrounded by those readying the vessel, scurrying about him. A sailor stepped forward to take his bags below deck, and he relinquished them, knowing only tongues would wag if he held onto them as if they held precious cargo.

The last bell rang and from the helm, a stooped old man emerged, dressed for the cold nights on the Danube. His hair was black, weathered by grey, his eyes squinting against the wind. Familiar with his face, Lucian nodded to the Russian. His name was Vasili Andreev, and he was the captain of the  _Marie Therese_.  _A Russian vampire for a Viennese vessel._ Reaching a hand within his shirt, the captain drew a polished old pocket-watch from within and flipped it open, eyeing the silver timer and closing it again slowly.

"You are late, Mr. Itzhak," the captain said in Russian.  _A man of few words._

Staring at the river, Lucian abruptly held his hand out for the watch. To his side, the captain stilled, staring at him with some interest, and then relinquished the item. There was no one to see in the darkness. No one to know. The metal burned into his flesh, the searing drowned by the sounds around them. He flipped the watch open.  _9:29 pm._

He smiled coldly. "I am early," he said.

_Exactly on schedule._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L'Union des Sociétés Lycans de Sports Athlétiques - based on a French sporting society started in 1890 (the L'Union des Sociétés Françaises de Sports Athlétiques.) I figure the lycans had their own sporting society.


	13. Song on the Ship

**Chapter XIII: Song on the Ship**

_Nine hours later._

The woman blinked, opening her eyes slowly. She heard water. It was the hull of a ship, the air cold, muggy, smelling of fish and tar. It was a slow river settling in its course on the other side of thick planks. Steps moving without voices. Her mouth opened, a soundless cry as the heaviness in her head fell away. Her cheeks were bruised, red and tender as if someone had strapped her with a rotting seal carcass. _Hell…_

… _her face was on fire._

She had been left on the bottom bunk, covered by a thin sheet, a flat pillow beneath her head. It was like being in a coffin. Her hand reached out, banging too soon against the siding, drawing blood, splinters in her knuckles. Groaning, she rolled onto her side. There was hardly any space to move, small light flickering from a brass oil-lamp, but most of the cabin, dark and miserable in its lighting. There was a very plain wooden desk cramped in the corner, a bevy of papers strewn across it and a brown bottle near the edge. The dark lycan was seated on the chair, his elbow on the table and his boot resting on two leather bags. He had a knife in his hand, carving something. A piece of wood. _Raze. His name was Raze._

She was going to be sick.

"Please…" Gripping the corner of the bed, she sat up as far she was able. _Bucket_. She needed a bucket. "…lycan, I need to…"

_Too late._

Whatever had been in her stomach was…rancid. A pool of black blood slipping and sliding from her mouth as the ship moved, an island of clots pouring into the centre. The smell grew worse. Staring at the floor, she swallowed and then wiped her mouth against her sleeve. In front of her, she heard the chair scraping against the floorboards, the lycan standing up. She flinched. _The little she remembered of last night… drinking blood, speaking gibberish…someone covering her head. She remembered what Lucian had said. "…you will not be killed for having a backbone." In spite of that, someone had…hit her across the face._ Staring at her own vomit, backbone did not seem relevant anymore. _She was a prisoner. She was alone. She was tired. She was past crying. Was he going to hit her now?_

Instead, she heard the sound of fabric tearing. In the next moment, a dingy old rag landed directly beneath her gaze, slopping into the centre of the rancid blood. She looked up to see the lycan retaking his seat, resuming his post, elbow on the desk, wood carving in hand. He did not say a word, but she understood.

_Clean it up._

_Better than getting her face broken in_. Resigned to the task, she crept off the bed and onto her knees, using the rag to swab up the blood. It was a disgusting mess, the rag turning black before she was half-finished. Her fingers were turning black and bloody as well. _She was not afraid of hard labour. Chores as a child…it was like scraping hides without water._

She let the rag fall.

"I need water."

The lycan did not look up from his carving.

So close to the floor, she could feel sweat on her forehead. The smell was revolting. Using the clean part of her arm, she wiped her forehead. _She was just pushing blood around at this point. He had given her the rag, why not the water?_ "Lycan…I am asking you…may I have water?"

" _Raaze…"_ Above her, a sleepy, cantankerous voice suddenly piped from the upper bunk. _Lucian_. She did not need to see him to know that he had been there the entire time, watching her vomit, watching her clean up her own mess, watching this entire spectacle without a word. His orders were in… _English_. She could understood one word… _water_. She could not make out the rest. _At least that did not matter. She did not need to understand his language…the English…to know what he was saying. Water. Smell. Revolting. Something along that track._ Obediently, the dark lycan placed his carving on the table and then strode to the door. His neck was very stiff.

Left behind, she waited, conscious of the gaze on her back. She did not turn around. Instead, her eyes found the carving on the table. The size of an egg, the right half shaped in the form of a beetle. It was surprisingly delicate craftmanship considering the rough nature of its carver. In a moment, Raze returned and with him, he carried a bucket of water. He placed it firmly in front of her and then left the room, shutting the door quietly. He left the carving behind. He did not look angry, but there was a severity in his manner. Tension on her account, she presumed…

Stooping over the bucket, she ignored the pain of her face and dipped the rag in the water, taking to her task again. _Clean the blood. Make it clean._ It was something to focus on. The smell was getting better. _Not so bad. Stuck on a ship, which meant they had left Budapest behind them. The farther they were from Budapest the better._ Soon there was only a dark patch on the wood. She wrung the cloth one more time.

"I am finished," she said directly. "May I throw the water overboard?" _A chance to leave the room…_

There was a grim silence. For a spell, she fancied that Lucian was ignoring or perhaps even scowling at her from above. When she peered behind her, there was no sign of him. Craning her neck, she saw the edge of his clothes, the woollen shirt, his boots, but his face was out of sight. From her knees, she got to her feet and raised herself onto her toes. His pillow was on his head, and his eyes were closed.

He was fast asleep.

Sighing, she threw the rag on the ground again. _Enough._ _The blood was gone. It was like cleaning away her shame. She was a vampire in lycan surroundings. Her face was stinging, but she could use her eyes…her nose._ Walking straight to the table, she began poring over the documents. _All of it illegible. Was this his handwriting?_ She picked up the bottle, holding it close to her eye and sloshing it about. There was liquid inside, deep reddish-brown, too clear for blood. Curious, she tugged the stopper and sniffed carefully. _It smelled_ _acrid_. _Strong. The faintest hint of flowers. Laudanum._ She sniffed again and then closed it. Leaving the bottle on the table, she moved the chair out of the way and knelt beside the bags.

Unbuckling the first bag, she began to paw through the items. Clothing, clothing…more clothing. Silk, wool, leather…everything was folded neatly. These were Lucian's clothes. At the bottom was a small wooden box. Locked. He would know if she prised it, but she shook it a little. The sound of metal. There was something metal inside, not heavy, but…rattling. She left the box and continued digging, listening for the dark lycan's return. _With Lucian asleep and her rifling, she would earn herself a slap for this, but it was now or never._ She found a mug, spoon, and bowl.

No knife.

An ivory comb, matches, a pack of cards and a metal tin.

Entranced, she opened the tin, expecting to find something…interesting. It turned out to be of more practical use…only needles, thread, beeswax, a small scissors and cloth. She put the tin back and started checking the sides of the bag. Tucked in one end, there was a shaving kit. A second bottle containing the same liquid as the one on the table. A steel razor…sharp with a pearl handle. Useless. _They would know it was missing and there was little she could do with steel_. _Only silver made an impression on lycans._ Folding the razor, she placed it back in its compartment.

The second compartment held a small leather-wrapped book and a pen of sorts. She removed the pen cap. The nib was wet. For a moment, she shook the pen, engrossed as little droplets of ink dripped onto her palm. _A new invention…a pen with ink flowing from within._ Dropping the pen, she picked up the book instead. The pages were old, the handwriting identical to the documents on the table. She frowned, turning the pages with care. _Again, the writing was illegible, but there were dates. 1721 was the earliest. Not a diary, but a type of…list. He was listing something_. _The order seemed important, lines drawn between items. Symbols beside particular dates._ She heard a cough.

She looked up.

No longer asleep, Lucian was fixedly watching her from his bunk. He had moved marginally during her investigation, shifting to the edge for a better view, using the pillow to prop himself up on crossed arms. He looked very…very tired…and in a far shoddier state of appearance than his bags. Lines on his face spoke of _tolerance_.

Shivering, she wrapped the book back in its leather. The pen was on the ground. She picked it up and dropped it. Grimacing, she picked it up again and tucked it away, buckling the compartment shut. She stood up and warily backed away from the bags, wiping her hands on her shirt. _She was not sorry. She was not…afraid._ Scrubbing her wrist against her scalp, she winced as it crossed her bruised cheek. _She was lying to herself. She was afraid. Ransacking his belongings. He would not kill her. He had…promised._

"May I throw the water overboard?" she asked again. Her voice was a croak.

He stretched, pushing the pillow away. "Raze will take care of that," he said. "…or I will." Sitting up, he began tugging his boots off and dropped them one by one onto the ground. They landed by the foot of the bed. His smile did not brighten his face. "Did you find anything of interest?"

She shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, hastily turning towards the table and running a finger down its length. It was easier to speak if she did not look at him. "I did not realise that you were awake," she said. _There was no getting around the fact. She was a prisoner. She had been caught._ "It will not happen again."

"Is that an apology?" He sounded amused. "You empty my bags faster than your stomach, but you have no questions…no observations. Like it was hawk's blood, was the pen to your liking?" _Hawk's blood. Sweet to the taste, almost as sweet as mortal blood. A delicacy among older vampires, but in tales, associated with greed and recklessness._

"Is this your handwriting?" she asked, changing the subject.

"One version…" he said. "…can you read it?" _The way he phrased it, there was already the unspoken assumption that she could not. It was not unkind nor mocking. Merely truth._

"No," she admitted, picking up one of the pages. She could grow used to this voice of hers, the croaking of an ancient. "…but you take a risk leaving these things for a prisoner to find." She paused and then frowned over the page. _"_ You take a risk sleeping when I am awake." _If he would not kill her for rifling through his bags, then he would not kill her for words. Threatening words. She was an ancient bloodseer and she wanted him to sleep…_

… _uncomfortably._

Abruptly she heard a creak.

He had leaped from the upper bunk. She could hear _things_ dropping on the floor. She felt her face flare up. _Was he_ … _?_ Blushing furiously, she kept her eyes on the page, but he strode around her, reaching across to pick up the bottle on the table. He was shirtless. Taut and muscled, tanned from the sun. _For a moment, she had thought he was stripping_. _Lycans were renowned for having no sense of decency._ Automatically, she heard her mentor's voice. The lady with the green eyes and the devil's sword on her back. ' _Lycans are dogs, their habits are unclean.'_

"That is for you to decide," he said. There were shadows under his eyes. He moved to the bag and unbuckled it, digging around and finding the spoon. "I took a risk getting you on this ship, but then I trust that you are worth it. Eventually, you will understand my reasoning."

"I understand that you are an addict," she said, regaining her composure. Her face was already so bruised, the flesh would not show her discomfiture. "When addicts sleep, they do not realise when their throats are slit. You will die in a drugged state, and I will be gone before your layman discovers your body. It will be him that wonders why you have trusted me." _It was not her plan, but she would test these waters. Her mentor's voice was like a boon, reminding her of what she was. A vampire and a bloodseer. Her memories might be shot, but she had survived this long without choosing sides._

"His name is Raze," Lucian said, clearly unaffected by her description, languidly speaking to the bottle it seemed. He shook it three times. Then with methodical hands, he poured the tincture onto the spoon and drank it with a grimace. "…and it is not in his mandate to like you, so he is nearby." He drank a second dose, again grimacing at the taste, his shoulders already growing more lax. "If you must slit my throat, wait until after dark. At least four or five hours," he added. "It will be your only chance before we reach Vienna."

She crossed her arms and made a sound of incredulity. "And how am I to know it is dark?"

He shrugged, tossing the spoon into the bag again. "We'll get you a time-piece." He twisted the bottle, tightly sealing the laudanum before returning it to one of the compartments. He then strode over to the bucket, picked it up and headed for the door.

It closed behind him.

She exhaled tersely, smacking the page she held back on the table. _He had taken the bucket_. _She had not expected him to do that. He was_ … _Lucian_. _A ruthless killer, a monster. Focus_ , she thought. _Lycans are dogs. Their habits are unclean._ She looked away from the door. Her face smarting like the sun. Her eye happening on the shirt lying on the ground, grey wool…it was _torn_. The same material as the rag she had used. Squinting suspiciously, she abandoned the chair and got on her knees, picking up the shirt. Scrunching it in her fingers, examining its texture. _Same material. So it had been Lucian who had thrown the rag, not Raze…_

Hearing him return, she dropped the garment, getting to her feet and out of his way. He did not seem to care that she had been studying his discarded shirt. He was still carrying the bucket, but it was empty now. Closing the door for a second time, he left it by the wall and stepped around her, almost gracefully climbing back onto his bunk. Seeming to banish all worry from his mind as he thumped his pillow twice and lay back, stretching his arms out and promptly falling asleep. And that was that.

_The hours would pass easily for him…_

… _but not for her._

_o…o…o_

For the first hour, she waited on the chair, sitting on her hands and staring at his face. She did not trust him. In the dim lamplight, there was only exhaustion on his face, even in sleep, yet she heard the song in her head … Even with laudanum in his system, if she moved, he would be watching her.

_In the tales, he was a creature that did not sleep. Vampires, he tormented in the night, mortals in the day. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning. Raped the daughter, burned her bones. Covered her flesh with brine._

Without thinking, she started to hum the old tune. A soft crooning sound, at first unremarkable…and then frightening. The song starting to stick in her throat. _He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning…_

_So feared in life, what had he done in death?_

Her eyes warily on his face, she crept towards the bags again, creeping like a bird around the wolf. Kneeling on the floor, she opened the second bag, searching for more clues…more traces. _Clearly it belonged to Raze…the lycan travelled even lighter than Lucian did_. _There were only clothes, a pipe, tobacco, cigarettes. In the side, she found a pack of bone dominoes. A shaving kit. No weapons. No trinkets. No books._ The bag smelled faintly of meat. Her stomach started to rumble. Hunger was biting, but she would have to bear it for the time being. She wrinkled her nose at her own foul stench. She needed a bath as well.

Finding the leather-wrapped book from the compartment, she retreated to the corner desk with his book, gorging herself with meaningless information for a second time. _Save for the writing, nothing matched. No letters. No words._ She flipped to the start of his book. _1721\. 1735. 1744. There was a pattern. She was sure of it. Dozens of numbers traced over two centuries._

Placing the book on the table, she scanned the pages around her. _The alphabet was a conventional roman, yet the words bore no resemblance to Latin. He had recorded no names in the text. No locations. No numbers. It was possible that he was writing in English, French…Spanish…one of the languages she did not know, but would he trust her even that far? He had been so certain that she could not read these pages, which suggested that perhaps…this was no language…but a code._

Suddenly she looked up, squinting in the lamplight, aware that she had stopped watching the sleeping lycan. He had not moved. His breathing was steady, his eyes were closed. She frowned, backing away from the desk, returning the book lest he waken. _A dead creature lingering in the dark for so many years…one who had not wasted his time, he said._

_She was getting hungrier._

_More hours passed._

She ventured to the door, opening it by a crack. All she could see of the ship was dank, the air lighter out there, but the surroundings worse. The hull filled with bunks and barrels, nets and rope. Hooks. Fish bones. The scent was everywhere. She could hear men walking on deck. In the distance, she could see where the light came from…an open hatch of sunlight filtering down from the upper deck. Immediately, she shut the door. She had not felt the heat, but a vampire did not wait for heat to know the first hint of sunlight. Not when her face was already tender from bruises.

Leaning against the door, she gingerly touched her face. The bruises were starting to heal, but slowly…only a touch faster than a human. Her scalp was still hairless. _Surely it must be approaching midday already. Would they bring her no food?_

She began to pace…no longer concerned with waking Lucian. The laudanum had done its trick. He was breathing easily, but it was a deeper sleep from when she had spied on him in the stagecoach. He did not fidget…he did not move. She could have screamed in his face and he would not have heard her.

 _How many more hours? There was no chance of escape while it was daylight, and no point in killing the hand that fed._ She faced the wall, seated on the chair. The lamp finally sputtered out, but she could not sleep…

_Why would a lycan drug himself?_

_It was foolish._

_Dangerous._

Finally she heard footsteps, the door opening and Raze entering the room. He carried two sacs in one hand and a rat in the other. To her horror, he dropped the rat, live and squirming, into the bucket. She felt her hunger dissolve. Without the lamp, she could see him clearly in the darkness, the form standing in front of her… he was so much taller when she was sitting down.

"I do not…"

"Eat."

She swallowed. "There were two bottles last night. I can still drink from the…"

"No," he said, finding his carving. "Lyosha disposed of them already."

_Lyosha…_

… _a Russian name._

_How many of these lycans were there?_

"Who is Lyosha?" she said dimly, unable to look away from the bucket. The rat was squealing, scratching against the sides of the bucket. Somewhere, she knew the sound all too well. _What else had there been to eat in those catacombs? Even before the half-sleep, she had eaten rats, starving on them after Tanis had locked her up. To escape only to have to eat rats again._

"He is Master Aleksey Itzhak…" Raze said grimly, staring down at her from four feet above. She suspected he was not taking kindly to her use of his chair. "…whom you are given leave to call _Lyosha_ for short. You have been sitting in front of him for seven hours."

At that, she finally broke gaze with the rat and looked up at Raze…and then behind her at Lucian asleep on the upper bunk. _Lyosha…short for Aleksey._ _A false name. It was true he had told her never to call him Lucian._ "How long will he be called Lyosha?"

"Until he tells you otherwise," the lycan said. Stone-faced, he picked up the carving on the table, examining it in the dark, his eyes gleaming silver. With his knife, he began to pare the untouched side of the beetle down, leaning against the wall. He did not speak to her again after that. She remained facing the wall, disregarding her hunger.

_Thirty minutes passed…_

… _and then an hour._

Starving, she rose from the chair, edging closer to the bucket, hunger overcoming her stubbornness. In the dark, left with nowhere to run, the rat had stopped squirming, its warm body cringing against the wooden sides. It would bite her if she handled it slowly, so her hand darted into the bucket, drawing the rat to her teeth before it could scream. Pungent blood flowing into her mouth. Sour veins, sticky on her lips, thick in her throat. Its fur tasted rank against her tongue. There was no choice, but in spite of that, she was grateful for her meal.

She let the rat fall back in its wooden bucket, now a grave. Her hunger was sated. But as she stood, she saw Raze kneeling by the sacs he had brought, untying them now that she had finished her sordid meal. _So this was how it was…he would not even eat at the same time as her._ _As if feeding her like a dog was the final item in some set list of things the lycan had to complete before supper._ Unable to help herself, she took a step towards their food, trying to see what they had saved for themselves…and then back again as Raze stood and called out to Lucian...

"Lyosha…"

She saw no movement.

" _Lyosha_ …" the lycan called again. His persistence answered finally by a muted grunt, the yawn of an ill-tempered beast hiding in a jungle. She immediately retreated from the wooden bucket, pressing herself up against the wall. _Fool to be afraid of a sound,_ she told herself. But it was a frightening sound, different without the lamp to give it warmth.

Lucian… _Aleksey_ … _Lyosha_ …stirred in the dark. His movements dull and haggard as he rolled onto his side…and then abruptly off the bed, his torso twisting before the impact. It was a small height, barely four feet at the most, yet his limbs absorbed the fall as readily as a cat stepping off a staircase. It was mesmerizing to the eye and more graceful than she would have imagined. _But it was ruined by what happened next._

Half asleep, he walked past where she stood, his focus entirely on the centre of the room. Circling the untied food sacs, shaking his shoulders out like a bare-knuckle boxer preparing for a fight. Unleashing and retracting his claws and then cracking his neck from side to side. His teeth longer, sharper…the scent fresher as he crouched down beside the meat. With little ceremony, he pulled two hares from the food sac and began to skin the fur from their backs. His teeth soon tearing through muscle and sinew alike. Cracking on bones before he sucked the marrow from its casing. _As soon as the one had chosen his portions, the other began to devour the rest._

She slid to the floor, nauseated by the sight. Many things her mentor had taught her, but in all her memories…she could not remember seeing a lycan feed. It was disgusting. Carnivorous. They tore apart their food with claws, attacking their meat like animals. It was just as her mentor had said. _Lycans are dogs, their habits are unclean._

 _But her mentor was no longer here. She was alone._ Cringing from the thought more than her surroundings, she folded her arms over her knees and buried her face. Trying not to smell the hare's blood. Trying not to think on the foul taste on her tongue. The air filled with cracking bones and snapping jaws until he noticed she was still there.

She could see him through a crack between her arms. Crouching only a few feet away. Blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, melding with the rough hairs of his beard. His nails ending in talons, and his eyes refusing to blink. _Shadows of black and blue warning her that something had changed since they had last spoken._ _Even with the moon absent, he was half-wolf already._

 _Disturbing that he could be speaking to her during this carnage._ And yet his jaw moved for a second time. Her mind so preoccupied with the blood that eventually, he gestured at the wooden bucket, as though truly concerned she had not heard him. "Your _rat_ ," he said again, enunciating his Latin and speaking louder. His voice deep as a fisherman's hook and sharp, dredging her out of her misery. "…how was it?"

It was a goading question. But she would not skitter up the wall for his sake. Instead, she raised her eyes to meet his question, refusing to look at the fresh hare's blood staining his fingers. " _Delicious_ ," she said plainly, for the rat was all the more sweeter for her not having to share it with him.

He seemed indifferent to her contempt. Breaking the hare's leg in half and licking his thumb before taking a seat on the floor. "You have my apologies then. There are no hawks to be had on this fishing vessel. No reckless excitement."

 _The day a lycan would judge her for handling a pen_. She felt her lips compress into a very thin line. "I do not crave excitement."

He gave a laugh at that. Short and feral like one used to isolation. "You spent twenty years sleeping in a monastery and your only companion was Tanis." Even with the sarcasm of his observations, it was clear which was the lesser of two evils. "Tell me, were you a nun in your former life?"

She scowled. "Do not mock me."

"Or what?" He snorted, flipping one of the broken bones onto the refuse pile. _His manners changing from courtly to cruelty at the flick of a bone._ "Are you going to riffle through my things again?"

"I would not dirty my hands a second time."

"Your hands already smell of vermin."

She felt her nose flair.

"At _least_ I can wash away the scent," she said curtly, forgetting herself in the face of his insolence _._

_It was a mistake._

A growl emanated from her right. The sound making her want to cringe. _Raze._ _She had forgotten Raze was in the room._ Her heart beating faster _._ _She expected a blow to the skull._ But she refused to turn her head, keeping her eyes on the one who ruled. The one who would judge her. Allowing herself to breathe when he raised a hand to still the fury of his layman. Her fate ultimately in the hands of one who seemed to feel neither pain nor anger over her insults.

Across from her, he continued to sit, finishing his first course as though she had not just insulted him twice in one sitting. Continuing to study her even as he chewed on a piece of cartilage. "Why would you bite the hand that feeds you?" he finally asked.

"All you have fed me is a rat," she said. _Forcing her mouth to close before she gave into the urge to say 'milord.'_ It was his voice that threw her…the precision of his Latin, the inflection in his tone…he sounded more gracious than she did. _But it was a mask. He was a lycan…and she was a lady of the blood. She owed him nothing._

He flicked an eye at the wooden bucket. "What if I were to give you more than just the rat?"

"Then I would take what you give, and I would turn it against you," she said. To do otherwise would be a betrayal of her blood. "…even if you keep me for a decade…or even two...you will still die in a drugged state, and I will be gone before your layman discovers your body."

He continued chewing. "Is it that simple?"

She felt her cheeks flushing again, this time with anger. Bitterness that her appearance could cause him to doubt her. "As simple as giving me a time-piece so I can plan for the occasion," she quipped. She wanted him to taste the acid on her tongue, but he was more intent on gnawing through the carcass, his teeth seeming to know its way into every crevice. The heart and the lungs swallowed in a single bite. His reply taking an age, as though he needed to contemplate 'this thing called 'time'…that which made him breathe deep before he nodded in agreement.

"Done," he said, as though she had just passed him a charter to sign. _Despite her words, she felt more like a pawn at a king's table than the queen she wanted him to see._ "Another night in this hell…and you will have your time-piece." Strangely, there was no contempt in his manner now, rather the sense that he believed he meant what he said, though she took him for a liar. "We will dress you. Feed you. Grant you every dream you have harboured in your sleep for the past twenty years."

"If this is a dream, then I would wake from it," she muttered bitterly, aware of the rasp in her voice and the truth of her circumstances _. It was the laudanum speaking for him_. _Nothing more._ Her eyes falling on the wooden bucket, reminding herself of how quickly dreams could falter when reality presented a rat for her supper.

With a raised eye, he again followed her line of sight. Staring at the remains of her supper like a soothsayer on his hill before he spoke again. "You will never taste another rat in my company, blood-seer. I swear it."

_As though he had not massacred thousands and then lied about his death. As though the proverbs of her mentor did not warn of her such things: Never trust a lycan, for without the smile, his face is an ungodly sight, the bones too tight, the teeth too long. And this one with blood on his hands._

She spoke without another thought. "I do not trust your word, _Lyosha_." _Aleksey. Lucian._

It was the first time she had used his false name. Perhaps it was the name that made him laugh _._ His gaze becoming unfocused _._ _Something so very wrong about his eyes. Like staring into a empty pit where a fire had once burned._

"Then trust a vision, oh _disillusioned_ one," he said, throwing the last bone onto the refuse pile and now taking the second hare onto his lap. Twisting the head from its spine before using his claws to remove guts and intestines. "…trust me when I say that in one year, my war will become your war. My den will be your home, and you will seek no other life. You will want for nothing…" His words were spoken with such assurance, as if the events were a landslide above them. "…and all I ask in return is that you _tell_ me what you see in blood…" His teeth pulled back into a winsome grin. "…and I will always ask."

"Asking does not make us allies," she said _._

"Time will," he replied. It felt as if he had marked her with his words. _Not her, but the wall behind her with its surface covered in more than just grime._ "…and though you may suspect my threats, for the sake of your _trust_ , blood-seer, I will make a wager." _The smile had not yet reached his eyes._ "A simple wager that before a year is done, you will _choose_ to remain in my den rather than escape." A cruel grin."Do you accept?"

 _A curse on her for replying._ "What terms?"

"Take the escape, and I will let you go. Your service complete and Tanis' head as a parting gift to remember me by…"

"And if I stay?"

It was unsettling the way his eyes followed her. _Like he was watching things that were not there._ "Then your allegiance belongs to me for the next century," he said. As if to finalise his meaning, he flicked a portion of the kidney onto the floor, swallowing the rest whole before considering the angle of his next bite. "Not the horde, lady…but _me_. A gambling contract, more binding than chains, some would say."

_First 'young woman' and now 'lady.'_

_She suspected his politeness did not come in threes._ Disturbed, she gathered the rags she was wearing closer to herself. _The deal suggested the circumstances she might face once they arrived in London…the question of whether her services would be privy to an entire hoard or just the den of a single animal. A wolf._ One that was consuming the rest of the unfortunate hare at an alarming pace. Still there was a deftness to the way he timed his bites. The impression that this was the cleanest manner by which he could consume using only claws. _His claws, his eyes, his ears all poised on the edge of this precipice, waiting for her to speak…_

_…and to her disgust, she found herself answering._

" _Done_ ," she said. "I would never choose to remain in the den of a lycan. They are _dogs_ , their habits are unclean." It was as if her mentor were speaking through her mouth. Across the room, Raze snapped the bone he was chewing in half.

"Then it is settled." He blinked and without warning, the glaze on his irises was absent. Only a flickering light in the grey to show that her insults were more amusing to him than she had wanted. _Her opponent more awake now that the deal was done._ "A clean lady such as yourself choosing to remain among dogs, even while the dogs snap at her heels." And then he bowed his head to her. "Are you not curious how this will come about?"

"I am _not_."

He looked over his shoulder. " _Raze_ …tell me, are you curious?"

"Of course I am curious, Lyosha," the dark lycan agreed, dourly chucking a bone on the floor.

"See, _Raze_ …" He pointed over his shoulder as though she were deaf as well as old. "…is curious. Raze is someone who gives a damn," he added, stretching out on the floor, not bothering even to lick his teeth. "Why do you think that is?"

 _As with so many things, his discussion of other people seemed to neglect the fact that they were sitting behind him._ She fixed her gaze on the other lycan. He'd had his fill of the meal, wiping his hands now on a grimy cloth pulled from his coatpocket. Folding the cloth so that the blood remained on the inside before he tucked it away again. _A layman…a guardian. A friend._ She wondered over the position this lycan held in Lucian's den. He did not show the same liveliness that Lucian was displaying. _The more lively the lycan master became, the more quiet his layman. The more careful his layman…_

In the end, she could only offer disdain for her answer. "Good breeding?"

He made a face…and then laughed softly as though he were starting to get a taste for her kind of dull wit. "Among other things," he said finally. "…but no, blood-seer, if we were to venture beyond the realm of a common insult, we might suppose that Raze is curious, that he gives a damn, because he is the master of his own reasoning. He _wants_ to give a damn, therefore he _chooses_ to give a damn…

She did not reply. He was trying to unnerve her with his conversation, but she would not lose her resolve. She must be hard as stone. Unmoved. Unchanged by his rationalising. It was too late to look away, so she hardened her jaw.

"Consider this," he said, already seeking another means of both drawing her out and diverting himself, using his nails to fray the torn edge of his discarded shirt. It was still on the floor, now stained with hare's blood. "I never said you'd _want_ to come back to the den. Only that you had to _choose_." He was destroying the edge, trying to find a piece of yarn long enough for his liking. "So in order to win my wager, I need only provide you with an escape…and then a compelling _reason_ not to choose it."

She could not help but speak. "A rat will not compel me towards your den."

"Are you certain of that?" Still on his back, he twisted the piece of yarn until the hairs were even, the piece now long enough to measure twice across his chest. "In the carriage I told you I would not _order_ you to eat broken glass. But if I were to offer you freedom in exchange for eating broken glass…would you take it?"

It was the tone of one who had seen death so many times as to render it meaningless. She swallowed and then forced herself to speak boldly. "I would."

His fingers were still spinning the yarn. "Twelve hours on a roasting rack?"

"I would heal."

He rolled into a cross-legged seat, tying the ends of the yarn together, using the tips of his finger to draw out the yarn in front of him. Using his fingers to dip and pull one by one on either side, weaving the string until it started to resembled a grid. "Three hundred and eleven lashes?"

"Without hesitation."

"Or much thought," he added, as though expecting more from one who should know better. He had completely abandoned his meal, now intent on completing his game of string. It was starting to resemble a hangman's noose. His tongue dropping smoothly into Russian as though they had been speaking it the entire time."The truth is, we all have our weaknesses, blood-seer. We all bleed and burn and hope we have enough air in our lungs to withstand whatever pain is being inflicted upon us. We think we are impervious in the moment before we break. But though we are immortal, we are not stone. And we can feel when things are taken from us..."

The yarn suddenly snapped, the pattern falling into disarray. She flinched for she had been watching so closely that she had forgotten to breathe. Unperturbed, he disentangled his fingers and let the yarn fall to the floor, continuing his conversation as though he had never paused. "So I have to wonder, blood-seer, now that your youth has been sucked dry..." Their eyes locked. "…what else is there for me to take?"

 _She was not weak. She was a blood-seer…and there was nothing else he could take from her. No pain he could inflict._ But for a reason she could not explain, she could not look away from his eyes. She could not look past him, not at the bones collecting on the floor nor the dead hare's skull with its torn fur still clinging to its scalp.

"Think about it, Raze…" His attention was idling away from her, his plans rolling off his tongue like poetry. "…a vampire who hates catacombs buried beneath the ground in the dark, dank catacombs of the den where even the rats have no claim…" Words meant to frighten her. "…enough blood to keep her alive _…_ and an escape if she can find it."

There was a grim edge to the word ' _if.'_

"Victory to be hers if she can just…find…that… _tiny_ …hole in the wall." The concern for her well-being entering his voice again, at odds with his appearance. " _…_ or she can simply come upstairs. The den willing to welcome her with open arms." He stretched his arms out to the ceiling like a preacher before his sinners. "A room and bed waiting for her. Warmth and comfort. No more dark, no more rats, no more maze _…_ " _  
_

She willed herself to breathe. Willed herself to be more than her fears. _She was a lady of the blood. She did not fear the dark…or the rats…or a catacomb._ Yet her knuckles were white. Her palms sweaty, her hands starting to shake. It was uncanny. She had never feared such things before, yet the thought of this…maze…was unnerving to her.

"And it _is_ a maze, mind you." He was watching her discomfort with undisguised interest. "…very… _never-ending_ , to be honest, but one would assume, within the year, you'll either die or come to your senses," he said. And then he smiled. An expression that might have been charming under any other circumstances. "Either way, the odds are in my favour."

_The odds?_

_In her heart, she knew there were no odds. The Fates had already spun his thread, and if it was their choice to cut it short, then so be it. Nothing he said or did to her would change that._ But with her memories stripped from her blood, the words would not come. The fears that had been sleeping quietly beneath the surface now starting to writhe with doubt. The air in her lungs shrinking. The taste of rat coating her throat as though he had stuffed its tail in her mouth. The room suddenly hot and stifling, filling her nose with the smell of raw meat and entrails.

She was trying to escape it. Fighting this sensation she had not felt since she was a child. _She was panicking._ A dreadful pain pressing against her chest as she realised what he could do. _He burned her bones and covered her flesh with brine_. Her lungs were moving too fast. Reason telling her that she was going to die like the Elder's daughter _._ _He was going to burn her bones…_ And then suddenly…without any warning, the battle for her dignity was lost.

The walls were closing in. The sockets of the dead hare's skull following her into the shadows. _It was smaller than the blackened skulls that had lain at her feet. The limbs and ribs of those who like her had failed to escape._ Her heart starting to beat faster until she could do nothing but cover her mouth. Sobbing into her hands. Pushing herself farther into her corner. She could hear her throat rasping, her lungs fighting to breathe in the wake of her memories.

_It was the rat._

The taste of it drawing her back in time so for a split second, she was there in the catacomb. _ _Crouching in her tunnel with the stone against her back. Rats nibbling upon her rotting flesh until she began to eat them in her sleep. In winter, she felt the cold touch of ice wrapping itself around her spine. In summer, she pulled herself back from the heat, turning away__ _ _from the mangled cloth wrapped around her legs_ …days…months…and years passing her by until a grey-eyed lycan pulled her jaw up and forced her to wake._

Across from her, he had neither moved nor changed his expression. _So that in that moment, she understood why he had lasted this long_. His arms now folding behind his head, while the rest of him reclined on his blood-forsaken throne of a floor. _Of course he would feed her a rat_. This was not about hatred or vengeance. By the chill in his eyes, he simply felt like setting a moth on fire.

_o…o…o_

Hours later, she lay in the corner, too exhausted to pull herself off the floor. She had fallen asleep and woken to find herself alone in the room. The lamp gone and the floor-boards cleaner than the rags she was still wearing. _The skull of the rat was the only thing left of both their meals._ He had placed it on the table, as though he wanted to her to wake to find vermin still watching her. Her imagination setting her fears alight, filling her mind again with every tale she had heard of his cruelty. _Vampires, he tormented in the night, mortals in the day. He filled them all with dread and scorn, ate the children of his mourning. Raped the daughter, burned her bones. Covered her flesh with brine._

The tune mindlessly humming itself in her throat. For now she knew what it meant. She knew that despite his promises, despite having paid for her, he did not care if she died. _She was a gamble…a possession. One minute, he promised her the dreams she might have harboured and the next, he planned to bury her among the dead._ So in the dark, she soothed herself with whispers beneath her breath. She did not hear herself sing the words softly, each syllable drifting like a curse from her tongue. A soft crooning sound, at first unremarkable…and then frightening. _Raped the daughter. Burned her bones._ The song starting to stick in her throat. _Covered her flesh with brine _…__

She breathed _…_

 _…_ and immediately regretted it.

The door crashed open. Before she could throw herself back, she felt a hand clamp onto her arm, dragging her out from under the wooden desk, across the floor and shoving her up against the wall. She wanted to scream, but her lungs were moving too fast. Her torso trapped by an enormous pressure. In the corner of her eye, she could see the talons of his right hand buried in the wall, only two inches from her face. _Blood, what had she done?_

It was Lucian. He was breathing hard, as though he had sprinted from the other side of the ship, his left hand covered in sweat, his blood-stained fingers wrapped around her throat, tight against her jaw. She was holding something back, a scream, a moan. There was no longer a chill in his eye. No longer any warmth in his voice. And yet his voice was soft when he spoke into her ear. "One more verse and I swear I will maim you," he said. "…first your eyes…then your hands…and then the skin off your back. Do we understand each other?"

She could no longer fight it. _Despair. Sorrow._ Tears layered over her eyes. _But she was tired of defending herself. Tired of being a pawn in this game._ She tried to speak, but could not get the words out of her mouth. Her jaw unable to move. _He did not care._ He pulled her face forward so they locked eyes. "I asked you a question…and I need you to nod…or even blink if we understand each other." His eyes were silver, his face contorted. A dreadful emptiness in his voice _._ "Now."

It felt as though he had nailed her to the wall. She heard a muted sound. _It was her own voice. Her throat trying to speak around sobs._ His hand tightening around her neck, almost snapping it until she cried out…and then blinked, trying to nod against his hand. _Desperately. Wanting nothing more than to cringe. Weep. Be as weak as he knew she was._ _  
_

 _Still he did not let her go easily. The words having caused more damage than she had bargained for._ The beast eyeing her with distrust, keeping her locked in his grip…and then suddenly wrenching his talons out of the wood, letting her drop to the floor in a tangled heap. From the other side of the wall, she heard footsteps. The sound of boots tramping down the hallway, but he was at the door, slamming it shut before anyone could see the cause of the ruckus. His body filled with an unruly tension as he circled her…and then began to pace around the room. Keeping close to its centre, stalking back and forth as though he were possessed. _Had she not been in the room, she suspected he would have been muttering to himself. Speaking in tongues unknown as he dissolved into the habits of an animal._

His scowl suddenly visible as he turned on his heel, staring at her as though he could hear that thought. She cringed, dropping her eyes quickly lest he attack her for the expression on her face. _She had not spoken aloud. She swore, she had not. But it did not change the way he was now looking at her._ His claws dragging along the walls and then down the sides of his arms, before he gave into the needs of his nature. Reaching again for the tincture that had been his solace only a few hours ago. _His habit no longer showing itself as a weakness, but a necessary evil._ _A silver cage that could keep him from turning into a beast._

Keeping his eye to the door, he found the laudanum and drank his third dose of the night. The laudanum tightly shut and secreted away, leaving them both to exist in the room, watching each other in this purgatory. _His actions witnessed only by one who was powerless._ She petrified, and he pacing until his gait began to slow down. His neck starting to relax until she could hear his heart beating to the pulse of a man. And then, as though nothing untoward had just happened, he exhaled to a count of three and then picked up the chair, placing it squarely before the desk.

"We should mark the date," he said abruptly. Reaching for his pen and taking a seat before the desk, his back towards her now. _He did not seem to realise he was dragging a pen across wood rather than paper._ "One year from today," he muttered, writing each letter out diligently as he spoke. "…and we will see which one of us has the upper hand…" And then he turned, the silver eyes appraising her with a gleaming light. "…death notwithstanding," he added as though it mattered. His voice all too calm, his politeness returned, and the blood on his face decrying him for what he was. _Cruel…ruthless…and insane._

She shuddered, folding over herself and breathing into her hands. Breathing slower…crawling deeper into her misery. And then closing her eyes quickly before she could lose her way again. Burying her face firmly against her knees, biting her lip so that her weeping would be silent. ____She would be dead within the year__ ,_ she realised, feeling her heart sink beneath the floorboards._

___But the deal was done._ _ _


	14. The Naming of Reinette

**Chapter XIV: The Naming of Reinette**

_The River Danube, 5:25 pm_

For a day and a half, they were in the pitch, the river taking them forward, up and down, over and under, stillness becoming a concept of memory. Below deck, Lucian sat at his desk, one hand wrapped around his pen, the other folding a sheet of paper. He was listening to the sound of footsteps, mortal sailors moving on deck while the unseen captain lurked in his quarters. _  
_

_Like the Charon of Greek mythology, Vasili was the ferryman between the two worlds, vampire and lycan, his ship carrying exiles instead of souls. Certainly, before his stint in the underworld, the vampire had fathered enough children to make his crew share the same name._ _They knew he was a vampire…their parents' parents knew…and their parents before that._ _But how an Imperial Russian frigate-captain came to accept immortality for the price of a river, only Lucian knew_ _. It made him trust Vasili only for the measure that it took them to reach Vienna._

As he worked, the only real sense of time passing was the dull scratch of his pen. It made him miss the presence of his watch, the constant ticking that reminded him how much closer he was getting to his goal:  _the death of Amelia_

_A century after raising the question, the vampire council had made its decision to split the coven. Let it never be said that they were slow to change. As the youngest of three Elders, Amelia was the one slated to rule in the Americas. She would only make it as far as the Awakening Chamber. Once Viktor was safely beneath the ground, she and her successor, Dmitri, would be found in pieces. The gap in power would force a crisis and the council would have to act. None among them would risk waking Marcus…and Viktor would not survive an Awakening so soon after his sleep began. According to coven rules, Kraven would become sole successor with the Elder's seal…_

… _and then he would make history by becoming the first vampire to propose peace with the lycans. An iron-clad treaty that would end the war._

_Five hundred years of continuous war._

Unconsciously, his fingers reached out for the bottle again…it was almost time for his next dose.  _Every morning and evening, he allowed himself a single drop of laudanum. Far too small to affect his guard, but enough to ease the pain in his head._  It was a boon having it in his system again.  _It would be so simple to take his dose sooner than later, but that would be giving in. His was a controlled addiction that he knew he could stop. He knew he could throw the bottle overboard like the seer's meal and never think twice on it. He was sure of it._

Purposefully, he drew his hand back, aware that two sets of eyes were watching his back.

 _Raze and the bloodseer._  Neither of them had spoken a word since yesterday. Stone-faced and restraining his anger, the first was lying on the upper bunk, still carving away at that scarab, an unlikely gift for his mate, Allegra. The second, the blood-seer, feigned sleep, perhaps content with the unwashed odour coming from her berth. _She had slept little in the last twenty-four hours. He had instructed Raze to take her above deck, but she would not leave the room. Her face was wet, her eyes swollen. Crying… sorrow… tears…_   _…what did such things remind him of?_

After a spell, he laughed softly and touched his pen to the new sheet of paper.

_Gunpowder…_

… _they reminded him of gunpowder._

_The London den would need several barrels, smokeless, white, and three times more volatile than regular powder._ _For this order, he must be careful in his wording, though it would be difficult for any but the master of arms to make sense of his code._

" _Mme. Durand…"_ he wrote, undisturbed by the constant movement of his desk. "… _It is with great sincerity that I again caution you to steer clear of old techniques. Those among us who find the darker colours…"_

He paused, chewing on his pen, mulling over the next word. Remotely, he could hear steps creeping towards the door. Similarly in tune with his surroundings, Raze sat up and placed his carving on the side of the bed. Such a simple act, yet it disguised an unparalleled readiness for tearing limbs. The seer only scuffed herself closer to the wall,  _useless_  in her weakened state.

Lucian blinked.  _Not useless, but…_ He finished the sentence. " _…deficient for a new century might balk at the prospect of accepting one of your paintings. Recall upon yourself the critics we wish to impress. Consider the use of white instead."_

Outside the door, the footsteps stopped, the stranger listening rather than signalling his presence.  _How ill-mannered._ Frowning, Lucian reread his letter silently, his pen held in mid-air.

 _"Mme. Durand, it is with great sincerity. …etc. etc. Old techniques…etc… Consider the use of white instead._ " He skimmed to the last part, adding the final touch. " _I am certain it will make a bold statement in this new era of…"_ He penned the word in, mouthing it silently as his hand flowed across the page.

"… _impressionism."_

_Finished._

Without signing, he laid the pen down and with the same motion, slid the laudanum bottle off the table. It landed in his open bag, dropping out of sight among the folded clothing. He looked up to see the bloodseer's eyes watching him apathetically. He did not smile.  _True, he had lost much of his charm once on the ship, but his patience for crying was wearing thin._

"What do you  _want_ , Andreev?" he asked, unceremoniously raising his voice enough that it could be heard through the ship's walls. His tone was not inviting, but the door opened, admitting the old ship captain. Again, Lucian did not smile.  _In exchange for his three-night delay, his party had been reduced to sleeping in a bunkhole rather than a proper cabin. Had the man come to gloat? They could not be in Vienna yet._

"Good evening…" said Vasili Andreev. His voice resembled the sluggish nature of the river they were on. He showed no surprise at Lucian's knowledge of his presence, largely because there was no supernatural gift involved here. _Andreev had a distinctive walk, barely placing weight on his left leg. They both knew how he had come by that._  Searching for a chair, the captain's gaze slid once over the bloodseer. Twice over the bucket with the fish carcass in it. _Lucian had kept his promise to her. Never another rat, though she did not thank him for the fish-blood._

Acerbically, Lucian gestured to the floor. "Please…" he said. "…take a seat."  _The vampire had already been paid for his silence._   _They would speak English until it was certain this conversation was suitable for the bloodseer's ears._  Nodding without complaint, the man closed the door and then ambled slowly to the wall, leaning against it. Once there, he merely stood, saying nothing, acclimatising himself to the room before drawing out conversation. When he finally did speak, it seemed that every word carried a hidden weight.

"Mr. Itzhak…" he said quietly. "…we are friends, yes?"

_So began the lengthy business of Russian etiquette._

Exhaling comfortably, Lucian turned his chair around and leaned back so that it balanced on only two legs.  _He had used Andreev for so long now, it had become a question whether the vampire worked for Kraven or himself. But there was a limit to how far he was willing to go for an allied merchant. Particularly one that had stuck him in a bunkhole for the journey._ He crossed his arms behind his head, making sure he was sprawled appropriately, the sole of his boot facing Andreev. Across from him, the bloodseer's eyes widened suddenly, her pupils trained on the heel of his boot.  _Clearly, her memories of Russian business culture were not so shot._

"Skip the pleasantries, Andreev. What are you offering me?"

Reserved in the face of this insult, the captain only shrugged, his glance now fixing on the documents on the table. Sharp eyes.  _Andreev was still under the impression that Aleksey Itzhak was a middle-man._  "I am thinking I offer you silence, Mr. Itzhak." He smiled. "You take acquaintance of mine as far as the border, and I keep peace for your lady friend."

_So much for paying for silence._

"I do not work in  _pairs_ ," Lucian said bluntly.  _That was a lie. He had taken exiles across the border in the past…the gamble always paying in the end for him, if not the exiles. But he did not believe in accepting a deal unless he got something good out of it. Really good._ "…and your offer of silence is clearly  _void_  as we are out of Budapest."

"Bah!" It was as if a match had dropped. Lightning fast, Andreev pointed his hand, gnarled and wrinkled, at the bloodseer. "Her blood is old. The youth…he is stronger. Faster. He will  _not_  slow you." Scowling dramatically, the vampire pulled a pipe from his coat. The way he said it, he made it sound as if it had been decided already. "If you take one…you take  _another_. I throw in transport as well."

Lucian smiled cruelly. " _What_  other?"

"Vampire without port. Fifty-seven years old, wanted for execution."

"Relation?"

" _Yes_."

" _Elaborate_."

"He is from my sister's line, my great-grand-nephew. Two years among Kraven's deathdealers, but…they are not wanting him. I keep him on-board but…" The vampire gestured vaguely with the pipe, searching for the right word. "…it is not good for business. Vampires are hunting him. Lycans are killing him." He stressed his point. "Not  _good_  for business."

Out of the blue, Raze snapped from above. "…if Aleksey says there is no room, Vasili, then you had best leave while your leg allows for it."

_Well that settles it._

Lucian let his chair drop to the ground with a bang. "How much?"

Raze's head whipped around to stare. The bloodseer said nothing, maintaining the bored look of apathy she now directed between the two men. She appeared to have swallowed her moment of shock at his lack of manners.

"Twelve years," the captain said, recovering quickly, using his hands to indicate the measure of time.

"No one is  _that_  hungry."

" _Ten_ …"

"Three months."

" _Aleksey_ …" There was a hint of rebuke in the way the captain said his name. "…this man, he is a  _good_  man. He needs  _years_."

"The good men in your fleet are dead," Lucian said, crooking his head to look sideways at the captain.  _This was the world of commerce rippling beneath the Underworld. Exiles bartering for years of safety._ "…and this  _vampire_ , the most he will get is half a year. More than enough to settle his accounts. In exchange, I require a dozen rounds of annual transport over the next five years."

_Perhaps he was risking much, but there was another side to this as well. He would give Vasili more than he deserved, and the generosity would pay in two years. They would need transport for more than just gunpowder._

Immediately, Vasili signalled his acceptance, holding his hand out to shake.  _He believed he had orchestrated an excellent deal for his great-grand-nephew. Six months…an excellent deal compared to the usual six days granted to exiles. Little did Vasili know, he had already made his decision the moment the man said 'execution.' Any vampire up for execution was therefore expendable…and the bloodseer would grow hungry over the coming days. She would need to be fed, being in no condition to hunt for herself. Another exile could prove…_

… _fruitful._

Lucian nodded in passing, ignoring the hand. To his left, the woman was unashamedly staring at him…not the dull cataracts of an old woman, but the youthful creature trapped inside. He did not tarry long on her eyes. "What did he do?" he said in Russian, returning his attention to Andreev. The deal had been made, so there was no need to retain English.

"Bad blood among the youth," the old captain muttered in his native tongue. His wording was more fluid now that he spoke his own language. He moved his leg, scuffing the dark wood where it was clear an accident had happened. "No sense of tradition."

"Clearly I am not enjoying your story yet," said Lucian, turning around and reaching among the papers, searching for an envelope. It was like dragging teeth from a six-week-old pup.

"He stole…something  _important_ …from a council member."

" _Better_. What did he steal?"

"A head."

"Metaphorically or physically?" All business, Lucian found the envelope and carefully penned the recipient's name on the back.  _The boy would likely regret having his great-grand-sire arrange safe passage into lycan territory. Most exiles did not make it in the end._

"Physically," the vampire shrugged, speaking as if all things in life did not matter one way or another. He was staring at the bloodseer again. "…though she was not worth it in the end."

_Typical._

Lucian dropped the finished envelope on the table. "He will do his own hunting. If he is caught by mortals or vampires, he is left behind. We will not wait on him. If he is as fast and strong as you say, then he can hunt for two. Make him ready for when the ship docks."

"That is good, Aleksey. He will be grateful…"

" _Andreev…"_

Almost at the door, the captain slowed in his tracks.

Lucian remained seated where he was…and then carefully folded the letter in half, running his finger along the edge, making the crease with his nail. "His past may be of no consequence to you, but I will not suffer a murderer twice." His tone suggested that this too was one of the things in life that did not matter one way or the other. "If he moves against either myself or my party, I swear I will burn him alive for the next century, finger by finger, piece by piece." He smiled at the captain. "Have him understand that."

Andreev squinted…and then smiled warmly, ducking his head. "I will tell him."

The door closed behind him, leaving them in silence save for the retreating steps.  _Though it did not take long for some commentary to arise from his dealings._

"You bartered for a  _murderer?_ " It was the first the blood-seer had spoken since the night before, and now that she did, there was a haggard note on the end of her sentence. Calmly, he looked up to see her staring at the ceiling, randomly tracing lines on the dusty linens of her bed.  _Really, there was not much else to do in this room._

"Think of him as a main course for the journey." Allowing her to interpret that as she would, he placed the letter in its envelope and left it on the table.  _Among the twelve letters he had written, only four would be sent. Only one of them would receive the appropriate seal._

_Time for a fix._

Reaching a hand down into the bag, he found the laudanum again and drank what he needed, returning the bottle to its hiding place when he was finished. Standing, he stretched his neck and arms, letting out a casual yawn before sauntering over to the lower bunk. Immediately her finger stopped in its tracing. She looked at him sideways, edgy as a flightless bird, and then sat up on her elbows, squinting at him. For a moment, her mask of apathy slipped.

" _What?_ " The word had a bite to it.

In answer, he lowered himself into an informal crouch, letting his head rest on his fists and arms, which in turn rested on his knees. It was odd coming up with a name for someone. _Marie-Therese. Jeanne-Marie. There were t_ _oo many Marie-Antoinettes running around, but…_

"How does  _Jeanne-Antoinette_  sound?"

"For what?"

"You," he said. "Or would you prefer  _fish-crone_? Not quite the appropriate ring, I think."

Her nose wrinkled. " _Fish-crone?_ "

" _Reinette_ it is. Now shove off. I need sleep."

To his surprise, she surveyed him for a moment…and then said the name, as if trying it out.  _Rei. Rei-nette. Zhahn. Zhahn-antoi-nette. Her pronounciation was unforgivable._ Still squinting, she finally shook her head and scrambled off the bed, bare feet padding to the corner of the room where Theophrastus had been chucked all this time. Picking up the book, she moved to the chair he had just vacated and drew her legs up, folding herself into a comfortable position for reading. Her face was as dry as winter ice.

Watching with a half-intrigued smirk, Lucian clambered onto the mattress.  _The moon be praised, she had given up crying._ _She was still far too skinny, but that would be remedied._  In seconds, he was drifting off to sleep.  _Jeanne-Antoinette…_ he mused, almost on the verge of dreaming. _…it was a good name. A good history. A good beginning for someone who must adapt herself to a new world._


	15. The Devil of Vienna

**Chapter XV: The Devil of Vienna**

_Vienna, 10:25 pm  
_

_At exactly ten past ten in the evening, Captain Vasili Andreev knocked on Mr. Itzhak's door, solemnly informing him of the Marie-Therese's imminent arrival in Vienna. He thanked 'Mr. Itzhak' for the concern he had taken for his family and wished him well on his journey. He also wished to remind 'Mr. Itzhak' of four outstanding debts from his last trip, amounting to the sum of seventy-five roubles, plus interest. He would now recite the list as follows. Damage to one antique door amounting to twenty-five roubles. Damage to one antique chest amounting to ten roubles. Damage to one antique desk amounting to…_

During this long-winded send-off, the bloodseer continued to read her  _Historia Plantarum_ , supporting the eighty-seventh page delicately with two of her fingers. The journey had not been easy, lying in the dark, her imagination confronting death from all angles. Dreaming of death, she had succumbed to it. From there, the decision had been simple…  _She had no clothing. No belongings. Nothing to propel her toward rising. Even this book was not hers. Whatever years were left in her life, she would spend them in weakness, hounded on all sides by her enemies. She must give up.  
_

_It was a cruel lesson._

_But then…out of broken memories, she saw herself: arms trapped behind her back, the green-eyed woman guiding her closer to the fire. Now pushing her. 'Those who hurt you will be indifferent to your pain,' the woman had hissed. '…so you must be indifferent as well.' Burning in the fire, she had drawn a scream from inside._  She would no longer shame herself. She would be cold…logical…all-seeing.

_Another cruel lesson_ _…_ _but one with lasting qualities._

Already, she had moved beyond the first chapter of Theophrastus, her eyes calmly honing in on the list of poisonous toxins once used by the Greeks. All the names were familiar to her.  _Conium maculatum,_ known as poison hemlock. _Veratrum album_ , common name, white hellebore, the roots causing paralysis and death. _Mandragora officinarum,_ the mandrake root, poisonous from its root to its tip. _Aconitum_ , common name, aconite or monkshood. Most vampires called it wolfsbane. The plant caused severe vomiting and respiration failure. After a number of hours, while fully conscious, the victim died of asphyxiation. It was comforting to think of Lucian dying in that manner. When she escaped this trap and returned to the north, she would take this  _book_  as a memento of life's cruelty.

"Reinette…"

She looked up.  _It was not her name. It had no meaning to her…like dressing a seal in lace and calling it to come…but for now, she would listen._  Around her, the room had the air of a storm which had come and gone, leaving her untouched in blink of an eye. All trace of the mess was missing from his desk. The floor had been swept, and the bed-sheets were folded onto the bunks. Lucian was kneeling by the open door, impatiently cinching his luggage shut with the brass clasps. Raze must have left already.

"…we are leaving."

She closed the book and stood. "I am ready."

"Then move." Impatiently, he gestured to the door. "We have much to accomplish before morning, so I trust you to keep to yourself when speaking to our newest travelling companion. Exiles do not make good allies."  _Was that a joke? Impossible._  In spite of the many hours of sleep, he looked haggard in the lamplight. His beard and moustache untrimmed, the grey eyes peering out of shadows rather than sockets.  _She remembered his words to her. He would kill her if she mentioned his name to a single soul._

Nodding, she stepped past him into the ship's hallway, peering down the hull that had frightened her so many hours before. The stairs were dark now, the offending sunlight banished to another realm. Behind her, the glow of their room went out. Lucian had doused the lamp. She stepped forward, feeling colder as they neared the outside. Things were much steeper than she'd realised. Mounting the first step gingerly, she felt more as if she were climbing a ladder rather than a stairs. There was only so much space available on the fishing vessel. Her pace quickened…she heard Lucian's steps behind her, the sound all but pushing her over to the upper-deck. As a result, she stumbled…

…and was caught.

She looked up.

The face of a dark angel, a seraph who would drop his things to stop her fall. She swallowed, aware that she was partially blocking the stairs. He was dressed as the other sailors, but she saw his teeth as he smiled. A warm dimple…a moment of understanding between prisoners. What she would give to be young at this moment, held in the arms of this vampire. He lifted her the rest of the way and set her firmly on the deck, bowing his head for a moment before speaking.

"Good evening," he said. Even his voice was desirable, the intonation of his Russian rising on the end of his phrases, the calm speech of a learned man. "I am Nikolai Proshkov Andreev." Her hand was still in his, her old flesh clasped so carefully in his young fingers. She could not pull away. Watching her face, he raised her hand and kissed the back in greeting. The act of a gentleman. "I think you must call me  _Kolya_?"

_A murderer._

_This was the murderer._

She blushed, knowing her face was old. "Good evening," she managed, quiet, feeling timid as she heard herself speak to this…murderer. She must remember the reason for his exile. She must remember…the rough cobweb of her voice next to his. The dust-smell that lingered on her clothes, the scent of an unwashed body. He must wonder at her place in all of this… "I am…" Her mouth closed suddenly.  _How could she tell him a name she could not pronounce properly? Would he laugh? Why did she care? He was a murderer. A killer of other vampires…the way Tanis was._

Immediately, she took her hand back…

From the lower deck, Lucian hurdled the last step and dropped his bag to the deck with a thud. He smiled, intently watching Nikolai over her shoulder, his hand slipping under her elbow. " _Reinette_ …" he said. "…go and stand with Raze."

To her surprise, she found herself relieved.  _This vampire…unbalanced her._  Quickly, she spied the hulking lycan where he was, his back to her as he conversed with the captain, likely as not paying Lucian's debt. She could not help but look behind her, spying as Lucian took the vampire aside to have a quiet word. Against the waning moon, their silhouettes were in contrast, the vampire, skinny and tall in his rumpled jumper, towering over Lucian who sported what appeared to be a less formal version of the suits she had seen in his bag. A blazer of sorts. In spite of the height difference, there was such a firmness in his stance that it was much like watching a stone face a twig.  _If only she could hear what they were saying…_

_o…o…o_

"I am Nikolai Proshkov Andreev." The vampire bowed his head, holding his hand out in greeting. "Great-grand-nephew of Vasili Igorovich Andreev. I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Itzhak. On behalf of myself and my family, I am thankful for your…"

He interrupted the vampire, allowing the greeting to wash under his feet. "I assume your sire has spoken to you about the ground rules?"

"Of course, Mr. Itzhak." The vampire did not waver in his directness. "We have an understanding. I will hunt and the lady may drink of me as she wishes." He quirked his eyebrow. "In exchange, you take me past the border and bless me with half a year to settle my accounts. I have freedom from both this ship and this world."

For a moment, Lucian was not inclined to answer, staring just past the vampire to the waters ahead. The pier was coming in sight, the lights of Vienna barely visible through the fog.  _Freedom from this world was not possible._ Suddenly, he turned, his gaze targeting Reinette. She was standing a mere ten feet behind them. Rather than flinch, she shrugged, her back defiant as she moved to join Raze. Her expression said that spying was a reasonable and accepted practice and if he did not like it, then he should seriously reconsider his vocation.  _Insufferable woman._   _This was not a matter to dance around until he woke up one morning to find Reinette's head sitting on his luggage._

He returned his attention back to Nikolai, the image of his quarry's head adding an edge to his candour. "I have a  _problem_  with you, Nikolai Proshkov," he said straightforwardly. "…but you can help me with it." He sniffed, touching his hand to his nose, now rubbing the side of his hand against his beard. It was starting to itch. "Reinette may be weak, but she has blood to spare." He began to walk along the ship's side, perusing the shoreline as Nikolai moved to follow. "Explain to me how I am to trust you when my first impression of you has her blushing. Has you kissing the hand of an old woman rather than spurning it." He stopped walking, turning to face Nikolai so suddenly the vampire almost stumbled. "Are you thinking of taking her head as well?"

"Bah!" Nikolai laughed, the sweet sound of an innocent, his smell starting to drip of sincerity.  _It was apparent where the boy got his expressions from._  "Mr. Itzhak," he said candidly, steadying himself with one of the ship-lines. "…I would never  _dream_  of hurting those who would help me in this manner. Instead, I will hurt those who aim to hurt  _you,_  and I will consider myself your servant for the next half year." Again he held his hand out. "We are friends,  _yes_?"

"No. That is more than our deal will allow for, Nikolai."

"Please…you must call me Kolya."

"Alright.  _Kolya_." Lucian turned, ambling back towards the others, allowing Nikolai to catch up with him. "Let me strip this bare so you  _get_  what we're dealing with." In their wake, a sailor dropped his rope, perhaps concerned over the teeth growing from his mouth.  _Or perhaps the concept of a vampire and a lycan taking a walk together. It was debatable._  "The first three-quarters of the journey, you will be blind-folded. While hunting, you will be in the company of my associate. If I were more than I am, you would not need his protection, but as it is, you are in  _need_. The Underground will know Raze for whom he is."

_Raze was the figure-head. To the vampires, even to some of Kraven's deathdealers, Aleksey Itzhak was just a merchant. A middle-man doing business under the nose of the vampires._ _In most cases, half a century could pass_ _before Soren considered a recruit ready to learn of Aleksey Itzhak's true identity._ _As it was…_ _Nikolai had only been among them for two years before he was cast out.  
_

"It is good." For the third time, the vampire thrust his hand out, betraying an insatiable need to shake hands. It was the Russian way of business, one that Lucian often spurned save for those he wished to impress. He stared at the hand. He did not enjoy having his hands touched…and he did not need to impress this vampire. But it would not hurt to start their acquaintance on a finer note than discord.

He held his hand out.

Immediately, the vampire grasped it, shaking the hand firmly. There was a fierce joy in his expression, as if he had proven himself worthy of life simply by getting Aleksey Itzhak to seal the deal with a handshake. "Thank you," he said. "We are friends now, Mr. Itzhak…I will keep it that way, you will  _see_."

_o…o…o_

Curious, the blood-seer crept up again, the book still clutched to her chest. Their conversation was drawing to a close, Lucian plainly uncomfortable with the vampire's fingers still wrapped around his hand. Even as he coldly began to unwrap them, Nikolai did not notice, still smiling radiantly, almost glowing. A buoyant vampire if she ever saw one.  _It made one wonder how he ended up beheading a council member._

She wandered over to the side of the ship, aware that Raze was following her. So close to land, he would not let her escape overboard. The city lights were masked by fog, the pier almost scraping against the  _Marie-Therese_ 's side. Men were running to grab lines, a number of them setting up the gangplank so they might disembark. The city was a mystery to her…and she could not recall if she had ever been here. Whether she had come from here on her journey to Budapest twenty years ago.  _Had she left things behind…a home…a family? Somewhere…was someone waiting for her? Twenty years of waiting. Twenty years in a crypt…and now she was unrecogni_ s _able. No one would know her for who she was…not even her family, if she had one._

Again, she felt a hand on her elbow.

She looked up, expecting to see Lucian, but instead, saw Raze, his chest covered in a cotton shirt and leather vest. She looked higher, almost wanting to shade her eyes. She only reached his forearm. He was attempting to guide her to the gangplank, steering her as if she could not walk by herself.  _She could walk on her own. She would escape on her own. She would live on her own when this escapade was over._  Suddenly, she took hold of the siding, gripping it firmly so that he stopped.

"I am not an  _invalid_ ," she said frigidly.

He let go.

Sniffing, she peered at him once more, making certain he would not take her arm again, and then strode towards the gangplank.  _Hemlock,_ she thought. _Aconitum for Lucian and hemlock for Raze. Even the strongest creatures could die from eating poison._  At the end of the gangplank, she waited with Raze and the bags. They were standing on the wooden pier, only an old man on a cask to greet them.  _This could not be the main city_ , she thought.  _The great Vienna. It was too…quiet. Too shadowy._

Behind her, she heard Lucian and Nikolai walking firmly down the wooden plank, their voices murmuring in sequence, speaking quietly of travel arrangements it seemed. They came to stand beside her…and for a moment, it seemed they were standing in limbo. Raze was staring off into the distance, while Lucian began to tap the side of his boot against one of the pier posts. The sound was getting irritating, but it was not her place to tell him off.  _Only to poison him in future._  Suddenly she heard cobblestones. Horses on wet cobblestones, the sound of a carriage coming towards the dock. The wheels stilled and then the sound of boots, a muffled echo in the fog. Boots striding towards them.

The boots of…

… _a woman._

Stunning, dressed in what surely must be the latest of fashions, the woman strutted down the pier as if she owned Vienna…her slender body draped in a style of riding clothes, a long, tight-waisted skirt covered with a fitted jacket and a rain-cloak. Her hair was auburn, tightly coiled beneath a stylish, wide-brimmed hat. Her legs had to be longer than the ship. Every step brought the woman closer to them and to her chagrin, the bloodseer could only step back, holding her book closer, feeling the need to shrink. _Was every new acquaintance going to be beautiful this night_ _?_

On her one side, Kolya was running a hand through his hair, a languid smile finding its way to his lips.  _He might look like an angel, but a devil was the way a vampire acted when he saw a woman worth looking at._   _Not kissing her hand politely like she was his grandmother, but eating her body with his eyes._  She turned away, disgusted by his reaction. On the other side, Lucian had not changed his manner. Expressionless, he stopped kicking the pier and shouldered his bag, walking on ahead to meet the woman.

The bloodseer watched him go, suddenly melancholic over her lost youth again.  _Of course, he would have a lover. Someone as beautiful as this woman. This stylish woman who did not fear the lycan master._  She trailed after him, her body stooped as she prepared herself to see them embrace. _It did not mean that she envied her…but from the time she had known Lucian, it had been a comfort seeing how solitary he was. The lone wolf surrounded by misery. She had enjoyed knowing he was completely alone in the_ _…_

She stopped, unaware that her mouth had opened.

Lucian had passed the woman, not even glancing at her. The siren kept walking… Her hips moving like a dancer, radiating sexuality, honing in on her prey. She strutted past the old man on the cask.  _Past the bloodseer…past Kolya_ … _and straight into the arms of Raze._

_Not Lucian._

Shocked, the seer turned away, following after Lucian quickly this time. She managed to close her mouth, feeling the mild dryness of having left it open for the last ten seconds. Footsteps behind her as Kolya chewed off his tongue and followed, probably as unwilling as she was to be caught spying on the greeting this woman was giving Raze.

At the end of the pier, paying no attention whatsoever to other people's love affairs, Lucian had already thrown the bags in the back of the carriage. Seeing his prisoners approach, he signalled both of them to get inside, handing them both blindfolds as they entered. Like in Budapest, the carriage was black, the windows covered in thick folds of velvet. It made her skin crawl, but she entered. After surrendering his bag, Kolya stepped up as well, eagerly taking the blindfold. He had tied it almost before he sat down. Such an eager vampire, but  _she_  could not bring herself to do it just yet. A little longer before she went into darkness again.

"Who is she …" she asked hastily, buying time under the full brunt of Lucian's stare.  _He was eyeing the blindfold._   _Surely he must see it would not matter if she blindfolded herself now or in the next two minutes_ … "…will she come with us? Is she a vampire?"

"Who?" Lucian glanced up from the blindfold. " _Allegra_?" He barked a laugh. "That she-devil. She brought the carriage, but I assure you, she will not set foot near  _me_. We do not see eye to eye, so to speak." He began searching his pockets for something, muttering as he did. "You vampires always associate beauty with your own kind, but trust me, that woman can grow hair like a…"

The door opened, and to her delight, Lucian abruptly clamped his mouth shut.  _It was the first time she had ever seen him shut up so quickly._  He was scowling at the door now…or more appropriately, the figure in the door: this Allegra who openly smirked at him. All she needed was a tail, and she'd be a cat preening herself out of a dog's reach. She seemed very pleased with having chosen to sit inside the carriage rather than on the box with Raze. The seer held back her smile.  _The woman's beauty had prompted a moment of sadness, but her attitude to Lucian was sublime._   _For that…she would like this woman._   _Flamboyant…edgy. A stance she would never again achieve in her weakened state._ Standing only a moment in the doorway, Allegra did not waste time, delicately taking Raze's hand so that he could help her into the carriage. She adjusted her skirts so they were inside and then sat back, crossing her legs. The door shut, and the carriage rocked for a moment as they heard Raze climbing up to the top. It seemed that he would be driving.

"Blindfold," said Lucian callously.

Obedient, the bloodseer covered her eyes with the cloth, tying it behind her head. His fingers checked diligently if she had tied the knot well, firmly making sure the cloth covered her eyes properly. He did the same for Kolya, as it was only after a second spell that she heard him take his seat again. Now she was in darkness…nothing to see. The sound of the carriage. The sound of the woman's voice.  _Allegra_. She sounded like water, the sweeping turn of a light brook. Pleasant to the ear…

_A pity she could not understand their words…_

_o…o…o_

"You look tired, Lyosha…was it a long journey?"

"Surely you can count, Allegra?"

She was not phased. "And who have you returned with?" Elegantly, she folded her hands in her lap, sitting up to look closer at Reinette. "Raze tells me you are wooing old women, Lyosha…but I did not believe it until I stepped on the pier. Why is she so feeble? When was the last time you fed her, the poor thing…"

He did not answer.  _It was hard enough being civil to her in front of Raze that he saw no reason to make a great effort without the lycan's presence. Unfortunately, 'no answer' was just another opportunity for Allegra to fill silence._

"…and who is this other one?"

Without delay, Nikolai opened his trap, like he'd been waiting from the first moment to introduce himself. "I am Nikolai Proshkov Andreev," he said pleasantly. "Please…you must call me Kolya."

"Kolya," she twittered. "What a lovely name…and he speaks German. Lyosha, he is not so weak…another one of your gambles, I suppose. You know, you cannot save them all…"

Lucian tore his gaze from the window. "Do you mind?" he said.

"I do  _not_ ," she answered sweetly, aware of what he was getting at.  _He had meant shut-up, but like most women,_   _she had selective hearing. This was probably the most civil exchange they'd had in months._  "And of course, I will be delighted to help her adjust, Lyosha. Raze sent me the courier, but I know it must have been you that asked him. We will find her clothing…something to cover her head until the hair grows. She will be an elegant little lady…"

"This is not an excursion of pleasure, Allegra."

"I never said it was." One of the curls in her hair had fallen loose, and she removed a pin, carefully winding the hair back into place. "I am simply pointing out that war does not have to turn us all into miserable  _vipers_  like yourself, Lyosha." She smiled. "…now leave it to me. She will be thanking you before the night is done."

"Just make it quick, Allegra. We do not have time to dally in the city…"

"…and we won't." She folded her hands again, a sly light growing in her eye.  _Beautiful as she was, Allegra was one of the oldest female lycans in the horde. One of the strongest warriors with the ability to change without the moon._ "You have so little trust in women, Lyosha."

He said nothing.

"I received a frightful letter from Jacqueline the other day. I swear, the paper was still wet when it arrived in Vienna. Are things not going well for the two of you?"

_Silence._

"But then I always said, she was never right for you."

_More silence._

"But maybe  _Kolya_  should be your next conquest…so beautiful and such a  _sweet_  disposition. Don't you think, Lyosha?" It was Kolya who shifted this time, carefully, if not nervously, though he could not see with his blindfold. At the movement, Allegra laughed lightly, raising her hand to pat the vampire on the arm. "Alright…we will stick to old women." She sat back, preening once more. "Now leave it to me, Lyosha. Your little woman is in good hands. She will be the talk of the town when I am done with her…"

Leaning deeper into his seat, Lucian smiled tightly and did just that, not even rising to dispute Allegra's last remark on his sexuality.  _All he cared for at that precise moment was that she had finally shut up. The one woman on earth that he could comfortably back down from just for the blessed silence that came afterwards._   _And whatever she said, he knew they would probably spend the next two to three hours at the warehouse while this ridiculous 'femme savante' decided what clothing to drape Reinette in._

_Heaven forbid they run into trouble._


	16. Blindfold in the Bath

**Chapter XVI: Blindfold in the Bath**

_District VI,_ _Mariahilf,_ _Vienna_

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage stopped.

The bloodseer craned her neck, eager to know where they were. She could hear dogs barking on the other side of the street, a bawdy woman singing  _Ave Maria_  from the top of her lungs. _Words without a tune, and a shifting memory of a prayer with little weight._ Across from her, she heard the rustle of Allegra uncrossing her legs, a hand now taking her arm, directing her to stand. The fingers were soft on her skin, keeping her from hitting the ceiling as they left the carriage. Wet stones that froze the bottom of her feet. Neither Lucian, Raze, nor Kolya accompanied them.

Forward they went, twenty steps to a door which swung open with a creak. Allegra's hand led her inside, disappearing only to shut the door behind them. They turned left and then right. Two sets of stairs, one way and then the other, twenty-eight steps altogether. Again they went forward, Allegra gripping her wrist close in the dark, leading her carefully, never once allowing her to stumble or graze herself. She lost count of the turns, like playing a game of  _Blind Man's Trick_.

Their steps began to slow, Allegra's boots making hollow, clapping sounds on the wooden floors. The air was getting warmer. She was afraid now, holding tight to the hand that led her. She should run. Tear off the blind-fold and run…but she could not bring herself to let go.  _Do not leave me_ , she thought, pleading in her head.  _She was too weak to be left behind._  As if sensing her fears, but more likely feeling the tightness of her grip, Allegra began to speak to her, soft and reassuring. Persuading her to imagine the conversation they were having so that soon, she relaxed her grip.

She believed in the measure of Allegra's voice…the sweetness in her laughter. They were talking of… _of herbs. Plants. The sweetness that could be found in ice-blood, sucked from a rabbit after it had frozen in the snow._  When they stopped…when Allegra put her hands to her sides and told her to…to  _wait_ …she did as she was told. Allegra was a good person. A warm one. She waited, her ears following the rustling of the lady's dress. Ears following the sound of…

_Footsteps…softer than the boots of Allegra._

_Someone was coming…_

_Behind her._

She did not think to take the blindfold off…only to keep the person back. She cried out, turning this way and that, her arms outstretched, backing away into nothing.  _Stay back_ , she pleaded.  _Stay away from me._  Again, she heard Allegra's voice, still speaking German to her.

 _Sabine_ , she heard her say quietly, but firmly.

_Darf ich Ihnen meine Freundin Sabine vorstellen?_

Soothing, she felt Allegra's arm around her back, drawing her forward to meet someone.  _Sabine_. Like a river, the babble of the little girl, Sabine, flowed into the room.  _Ich freue mich, Sie kennenzulernen, Frau Tattergreisin,_  the girl said, shaking her hand politely. Now it was Sabine's turn to lead, the small fingers drawing her to the sound of water pouring into a basin. Helping her out of her clothes, the shirt over her head, the dusty breeches to the floor. It was Sabine who held her hand, Allegra holding her waist so she would not slip.

Such a shock entering the water.

Hot water…the smell of rose petals and citrus. She could not remember the last time she had bathed.  _She did not want to see her body…only to feel water on her skin. Forget that she was herself._ Forget that she was a prisoner. Forget that it was not her friend, her sister, her mother scrubbing her back, squeezing water on her neck.  _They were not so different, Sabine and Allegra._ They prattled away in their tongue, laughing between them, Allegra's hand dipping into the water to splash, Sabine shrieking with a peal of laughter for a moment, a hand shushing over her mouth. The pair of them giggling like schoolgirls.  _They were so happy. In the midst of war, they were happy._  She listened, envying them…

…and then fell asleep.

_o…o…o_

When she woke, the water was still warm, but the room was silent.  _They were gone._  She pulled the blindfold off, letting it fall into the bath, watching the ripples as it sunk to the bottom. Beneath her, she saw the first glimpse of copper, her pale legs strung with age, her body clean, but ancient.  _She could not stand. Not yet_. Looking around, she saw the room's warmth came from a small fire in a grated stove. A pair of candles on the floor, smelling of beeswax and tallow. Not enough light to blind her. Above her, there were slats of wood, the attic of what must be a workman's house. A single window directly across from the slats, circular with an iron cross in the centre. Through its glass, rather than sky, she could see the stones of another structure.  _No escape there…_ She used the sides of the bath to pull herself up, trying to find a new route. The building must be enormous, wooden boxes along the edges, the walls stretching out farther than she could see. On either side stood an army of dressmaker's dolls, fully dressed while her clothing was gone, swept away.  _She could not have slept that long._

_Had they left her?_

_No…_ Dimly, she could hear pacing outside the room. Steps echoing off the same wooden floor she had walked on earlier. Her eyes sought the source. It was a wooden door on her right, badly damaged, covered with a pattern of scratch marks across its surface. Five-tiered scratch marks…they left no doubt over what brand of creature typically lurked in this room. She sat up further, her ears inclined towards the right wall. They were coming closer…

_Deep voices…_

_Raze speaking sombrely, weighing every word before he spoke. Lucian remarking his displeasure, his volume never rising above an understated murmur. Allegra pacing back and forth across the room, arguing with the two of them. At times, she would laugh…a bell-like sound that made one want to…_

"You should not have removed your blindfold…"

She gasped, turning her head to the left, water sloshing out of the tub, causing the candles to sputter. She was not alone. In the shadows… _but who had spoken?_  She squinted, wishing her eyes could see as sharply as they once did. She scanned the room…and realised soon enough that she was looking too low. _There_. A young girl, red-haired and dressed in sombre grey, black stockings and buttoned shoes, sat on one of the higher crates to her left. She was hiding behind one of the dressmaker dolls.

 _Sabine_.

_Allegra's sweetmeat._

They stared impassively at each other, the one wrinkled with age, the other a child. Blindfolded, she had expected the girl to be a golden-haired, ringlet-sprouting angel.  _But she was thin, oily…her face was smudged, the entirety of one ear missing, the remnants of the same wound marring her cheek. Red scratches along her arms and legs. The only neat part of this child was her clothing…and she suspected that was Allegra's choice, not the girl's. She could not be more than nine._

"Do you always do what your caretakers tell you?" she said bluntly to Sabine.  _She would not be ordered by a child that was barely the age of her shortest hair._

"Yes," the girl replied. Her Russian was very infantile, but she made up for it with forwardness."If you do not, vampires will come and eat you in the night."

"Are you afraid  _I_  will eat you?"

"Of course…" She stepped out from behind the dressmaker doll. "…but you must be afraid too. If you eat me, Lyosha will cut open your stomach and save me." She said this without hesitation. "It says so in my chapbook."

 _Lycan chapbook…who ever heard of such a thing? The only story the girl could be speaking of was either Red Hood or the Seven Goats…and neither ended with a vampire falling prey to a wolf's knife._ Frowning, she allowed herself to sink into the water again, inclining her head so she could still see the child over the rim.  _She had never been good with children._

"The wolf dies in that story, little girl," she said.

Sabine shook her head. "He stays alive." She stepped from the crate, landing so lightly, like the floor had echoed for a feather. Approaching the copper tub, she kneeled and balanced her arms on the edge. "Why are you so  _old_ ," she asked. "…Lyosha says old vampires are made of dust. Is it true?"

_Blood._

_She had no energy for this…_

Sternly, she eyed the girl, and then looked away, settling upon the hope that if she ignored something, it would eventually go away.  _Children often did not reali_ s _e the insolence in staring…but Sabine, she believed, knew exactly what she was doing. Her eyes were unnatural. Pale grey and unnervingly still._ Saving her the trouble of having to converse further, Allegra swept through the door, shutting it behind her. She carried a lush towel, almost trailing it on the ground, a mound of clothing over one arm…scarves, stockings, a pleated dress, and what appeared to be a skirt and blouse. A bone-corset peeking from beneath the skirt…

"That was a very rude thing to ask, Sabine," the lycan lady chastised in Russian, tossing the clothes to Sabine and strutting over to the bathtub, unfolding the towel. When the blood-seer did not stand, she clucked her tongue melodically. "Come Reinette, we are all women here…" She raised the towel up higher, shielding her charge from the closed door. "…you need not worry. They will not enter."

_They?_

_Between the two of them, Lucian and Raze had seen more of her body than she had since aging. But_ they _were not the problem. The problem was standing up naked in front of Aphrodite and her rat maiden._ Reluctantly, she stood, stepping from the tub and allowing herself to be enfolded in the warm material. There was water dripping from her shoulders, goosebumps spreading across her back. She felt like a child again.  _It did not make sense for them to treat her this way. She was their prisoner._ From behind, she felt Allegra briskly rubbing the towel over her head and shoulders, drying her quickly and thoroughly, leaving the towel over her head like a veil to keep her warm.

_She had to know…_

"Why are you kind to me," she asked, peering dully at Allegra from beneath the towel. The lycan was stroking her shoulder now, the gesture almost maternal, thoughtless in its direction. She did not draw away as the hand moved up to her cheek, and then over her head, the fingers soothing as they stroked the faint down growing from her scalp.  _Part of her hated the sensation. Filthy lycan hands on her head. She was being tamed…broken…but it felt so good to be touched._ She closed her eyes, letting the woman work the knots out of her back.

"I am only kind because someone was once kind to me," she heard Allegra say. "We return the favours we are dealt."

 _Favours,_ she thought, opening her eyes.

"If I returned all the favours bestowed on me, I think I would become a cruel person," she said. The fire crackled in the grate. Her eyes moved towards it and then back to Allegra's face. "I will not be here very long," she added impulsively.

Allegra nodded, rueful in her smile. "So they all say," she said…and without warning, she snapped her fingers. Behind her, Sabine came forward, eyes trained attentively on her mistress, her arms holding out the bundle of clothes for inspection. From the bundle, Allegra selected a blue-black skirt…the colour of whale-skin. "Up," she said, holding the skirt out.  _At least she had not snapped her fingers._  Staring, the bloodseer reflected upon her choices…and then obeyed, standing up and letting the towel fall from her head.

_o…o…o_

When she was fully dressed, Allegra brought her a mirror. The glass was dusty, but she could at least see the vast improvement. She looked like a woman in half-mourning. The skirt was plain, but well-tailored. Perhaps a measure too long, but Allegra had found time to pin up the hem. A corset had been firmly laced up her back, though it made little difference considering the size of her waist. Her shirt was grey, firmly starched and buttoned up to her neck. Over everything, she wore a winter coat made of black wool, stockings, leather gloves, heeled boots, and a mourning hat to cover her head. Beneath the hat, she had hair again…human hair by the texture, most of it hidden by a veil. A small ivory brooch completed the outfit.

Most surprising of all was the unseen golden chain hanging from her neck.  _She had believed Lucian was lying when he said he would give her a time-piece…but Allegra had fastened it around her neck, saying only that it was a gift for her days ahead. A gift from Aleksey Itzhak._  Uncertainly, she drew the small pendant-watch out, unwilling to open it for fear it would break. On the one side, it bore the enamelled image of an osprey in flight…on the other, the far-off glow of a lighthouse. The workmanship was elegant, hand-painted before its makers had fired it in a kiln. It was beautiful.

She avoided looking at her face and focused on the space behind her instead. On the floor sat a leather bag holding two dresses, four shirts, three skirts, and an extra pair of stockings. She even had undergarments: drawers, a nightgown, a linen chemise, and two petticoats for the sake of warmth. While Allegra had packed her bag, the candles had burned a quarter of an inch lower. She could no longer hear the men in the other room, but she could imagine their impatience at having to wait on account of a prisoner.

"Thank you," she said readily.

"You are most welcome," answered Allegra. She was not surprised when the woman's hand reached out, tucking the end of the scarf into her coat. She was treating her like a newborn. "…but it is Lyosha you should be thanking."

"He wishes me dead."  _Impulsive words_. Even to her own ears, she sounded like a child railing against fate.  _But she did not want to go with him and for that, he was the enemy._

"Do not judge him by his words, Reinette. He is a difficult creature…" The lady paused, now adjusting the broach. She finally settled upon re-pinning it half an inch above its original position. "And if he has chosen to gamble in your favour, then you should be grateful."

"I am not grateful," she said clearly, allowing Allegra to turn her around one final time. "I am afraid." Strange that she would admit her fears in front of a lycan, but the woman had tamed her the moment she laced her corset. She was certain it would be the first and last gesture of kindness she would encounter for many years.

Allegra touched her chin, and then gripped her by the shoulders. "We are at  _war_ , Reinette. You may be his prisoner, but do not let it eat at your courage. Many would kill for the treatment you are receiving, least of all his fancy women."

"His fancy  _what_?"

"Women, dear. They sit on his knee and the like." Having easily segued from the topic of war, Allegra released her shoulders and snapped her fingers again for Sabine to come.  _The girl had likely wandered off into the shadows again, playing a game of dresses with the rest of the warehouse stock._  She began to stalk among the boxes, searching for her charge. "I tell you, if there is one thing you should know of Aleksey Itzhak, it is that he is  _not_  a sensitive man. Logic, politics, strategy…he is marvellous, but when it comes to the common woman…" She shook her head. "…no consideration. None _whatsoever_. Think of his poor mistresses; they actually have to live with him for a spell."

The bloodseer blinked.  _Fancy women…mistresses._

_Allegra had not even paused on the plural._

"Well, they can  _have_  the treatment," she replied coolly, daring to cling to her perception of lycan imprisonment. "He vowed to  _bury_  me underground. He will leave me in the dark, drinking rat's blood while a murderer like… _like_   _Kolya_  is given leave to start a new life." Just thinking on it brought the taste of rat to her tongue again. She managed a final grumble, her protests winding down. "How long before he forgets his promise? Before he forgets that I am even down there…"

"My dear, it is better to be in the dark than dead." Having located Sabine under a pile of old hoop-skirts, Allegra drew the girl up into her arms and reached out one more time to grip the bloodseer's hand. She held it tight as they stepped towards the door. "Keep to the shadows and survive the war," she said proudly. "It is the lycan way."

_o…o…o_

The door opened onto a poor man's sitting room. Two chairs were drawn up to an ill-balanced, wooden table with a mass of playing cards scattered across its surface. It was unclear what the rules of the game were. Neither Lucian nor Raze looked up from their hands, but the one removed an  _Eight of Diamonds_  and flipped it onto the table, face side up, while the other reorganised his cards. Without knowing their time of arrival, she could not tell how long she had kept them waiting…but in any case, she was not the one to bear the reprimand.

" _Allegra_ ," Lucian threw down a card.  _The Knave of Clubs_. He picked another from the table. "…are you quite finished discussing my love affairs behind closed doors?"

" _Yes_ , Lyosha." Cool as a breeze, Allegra put Sabine down by the door and sidled past him, moving to stand beside Raze. Her arms snaked around his massive shoulders, kissing his neck once before she pointed a finger at one of the overturned cards on the table. Raze did not smile, but he picked the card up, touching her hand with affection.  _How kind of them all to speak Russian in her presence._

"And the bath was hot?" Lucian discarded another card.  _The Ace of Diamonds._ "You know I would be disgraced if we mistreated one of our own with cold bathwater."

" _Of_   _course_ , Lyosha."

"Is her clothing sufficient…the material soft, the coat warm enough?"

"As you can see, Lyosha." Allegra's voice was like syrup.

"Is she hungry? Should I woo her over supper? Blood-caviar…a fine wine?"

Hidden by her veil, the blood-seer kept her cool, expressionless as he mocked her appearance.  _Sarcasm…always sarcasm. It was like Allegra had said…no consideration for women._  From behind, she heard Sabine giggle suddenly, the sound making her look down, causing Lucian to look up, his grey eyes searching the little girl out. " _Sabine_ …" He growled over his cards. "…you seem taller since you entered the room. How old are you now? Sixty? A hundred? How many years have passed?"

Behind her, Sabine spoke. "I am nine, Lyosha."

"Eighty-seven, you say…"

" _No_ ," Sabine giggled again, hiding her face with her hand and shaking her head gleefully. "I am  _nine_."

"I swear you are eighty-seven. It makes you old enough to answer my question." He flung another card on the table.  _The Two of Spades._  "Do you think we can leave this Viennese fleapit or is your mistress still concerned over my prisoner's hemline?"

The blood-seer could not soften her jaw, but she waited to see what their mutual advocate would do.  _Lucian was acting a right bastard._ Clearly unembarrassed by the insults floating about the room, Sabine peered questioningly at Allegra. Straight-faced, Allegra merely drew a card out of Raze's hand and tossed it on the table before nodding her head. Sabine looked at the card…and then smiled, showing a missing tooth. The rest were sharp.

"Lyosha, we are ready," she said.

" _Excellent_." He was about to stand, but as he shifted forward, his gaze happened first upon the card Allegra had picked.  _The Queen of Clubs._  He stilled…grimaced…and then flung the rest of his cards onto the table as well. "You have yoked yourself a  _demon_ , Raze." Removing a leather wallet from his breast-pocket, he pulled out a folded stack of crisp bank-notes and tossed it to the other lycan. "A minute inside the room, and she knows where the cards lie before I have thrown them down."

Allegra only smiled, holding onto Raze.

_It would seem the game was won._

_o…o…o_

A minute later, the pair left to say their goodbyes in a separate room. _For the present, Allegra had ties that must keep her in Vienna_. Not entirely a monster, Lucian collected his cards and proceeded to start a game of patience, herself seated across from him, Sabine having chosen to sit on  _her_  lap rather than his.  _Sabine was to accompany them on their journey. She felt uncomfortable with the set-up, but no one but Allegra would have cared if she gave her opinion._ _The girl had no understanding of personal space. To make matters worse, it made her lose sight of the fact that she held an animal in her arms…not a girl at all._

Sure enough, the red hair began to droop, so that she found herself cradling a lycan as if they were mother and child.  _She did not appreciate the embrace, but there was nothing she could say or do about it. Lucian was otherwise occupied with his game. Something she began to watch…and then understand until she forgot herself completely._

"Clubs," she said impatiently.

Lucian looked up in question, an eyebrow raised. "What?"

She pointed. "Under that diamond, you can move the four of clubs over. It will win you the game quicker."

His eyes looked to where she was pointing. He did not seem to enjoy her impromptu participation in his solitary game. "The game is called patience for a reason," he said grimly. "…but thank you all the same."

When Raze and Allegra finally emerged, while they shared a final kiss at the door, she had trouble waking the child. Watching her difficulty over his cards, Lucian unexpectedly got up and reached across the table, gently nudging the sleeping girl awake in her arms. For some reason, she responded to him. Sabine looked up, rubbed her eyes and then meandered off her lap, leaving red hairs behind on her skirt.

To her surprise, she watched as Lucian's eyes followed the girl's path, and for a moment, she saw in them the same warmth as on the first night of their meeting.  _Genuine warmth_.  _Sabine…this raggedy, unsettling girl…was dear to Lucian. Why?_ A final glimpse of Allegra kissing the girl on the forehead, and then once more they set out in the dark. Before they left, he handed her the same blindfold he had retrieved from the bath. He would not tell her where they were going, but when the carriage finally stopped…

… _she heard the sound of a train._

The scent of smoke in the air as she stepped down from the carriage. Cobblestones beneath her feet. Lucian, herself, Sabine…and a new voice. Someone speaking German. The sound of Raze climbing down from the carriage, while another took his place.

_If she could say nothing for their uncouthness…Allegra excepted, it was becoming rapidly apparent that these lycans were efficient in their business. It mystified her how they managed to communicate so swiftly. How did the one always know when to meet the other? What connected them?_

Before she could make sense of it all, the carriage moved swiftly off to the right, gone in the space of a heartbeat. She swallowed, feeling caught out in the open.  _Where could they be standing that people did not see them?_  She could feel her heart start to race, panic gripping her throat _…_ making her breathe too fast. Unexpected, she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her around. Removing her blindfold and leaving her veil in disarray.

 _Lucian_.

She blinked, staring at him for a moment _…_ and then looked around. They were standing in the shadow of a train station, the empty warehouse behind holding the box-cars. The entire floor was empty.

Empty save for two wooden boxes, their lids on the ground, each measuring about four by four feet. On the ground lay four bottles of blood, each sealed with wax, a box of nails and a hammer.

Her heart sank.  _There was likely a good reason why the interior of each box was lined with sackcloth_. To make matter worse, across the room, she saw Kolya already stretching, preparing for what was to come. They must have brought him in a different carriage…and though he was incredibly tall, he seemed rather keen to demonstrate how easy it was for him to fit into such a small space. But she was  _not_  Kolya.

She breathed…and then turned to Lucian. "Lyosha," she said. "…I am  _not_  getting in that box."

"Reinette, I may be able to wrestle you onto a fishing vessel, but unfortunately, the Orient Express is a touch more grand than that." He took her by the hand, leading her towards the box. "We have two thousand kilometres to travel and half of that stretch will be under the sun. One, you do not have a ticket, and two, I do not trust the drapes in our sleeping-car. We are going to Paris and if you intend to follow me…" He paused. "…and you  _will_  follow me, Reinette…" He picked up one of the hammers. "…then I am afraid you will be travelling under reduced circumstances."

"Can you not…" She peered into the box. "…make it bigger?" It was a hopeless question, but there had to be another box. Kolya was already climbing into his. She looked about, scanning for something else to climb into.

" _Reinette_."

"What if we…"

"Get in."

Behind the veil, she made a face…and then shut her mouth, swallowing a hiss. "Oh,  _very_  well," she ground out, violently wrapping her skirt closer, raising it as much as she dared so she could climb into the box. She leaned back first with her knees bent and then allowed herself to cross her legs.  _There was just enough space for that…but how uncomfortable. The sackcloth was itchy wherever it touched open skin._  She looked up. "…mark my words, Lyosha, I will be gone by the time we arrive in Paris. I'll throw myself off the train."

He shrugged. "If you throw yourself off the train, woman, I will still be there to pick up the pieces." The lid came down with a thump…darkness, the walls coming closer. She swallowed, feeling the thickness of the air, feeling the trap…she could not breathe in here.  _How would she spend the next twenty-four hours this way?_

Suddenly, the lid lifted up again. "Here." Theophrastus came thumping down onto her lap.  _Reading. He expected her to read? Did he not have another book?_

" _Bastard,"_ she muttered.

"Does that surprise you?" He held the lid up for a second longer, leaning in with a lowered voice. "Look…how else did you think we'd get to Paris? I once had to spend two weeks in a space between walls. That's for someone that actually digests something more than blood. Think on that before you whine about being in a safe-box for a day."

"I am  _not_  whining."

"You are whining."

" _Braggart_."

" _Infant."_

He dropped the lid with a bang. This time, it did not come up again, and she had to listen…panic…as the nails came down, the hammer shutting her up in pitch-black for what would be the next twenty-four hours. Grunts as she heard the sound of…others…there were other lycans out there, many hands making light work. They must have come out of the woodworks. She felt the box lift up into the air, swaying as if held by a pulley.  _If they dropped her, so help her, she would take someone's eyes out when he came to pick up the pieces._ A powerful thump…and then stillness.  _She was on the train. Only God knew when their departure time was._

She sniffed…and then stuck her tongue out.  _Bastard,_ she thought defiantly, curling up to wait.  _It was humiliating the way he carted her around like used goods._  ' _Two weeks in a space between walls.' Had he forgotten the past twenty years she spent in a catacomb? She was a hunted creature…an old vampire…a…a…_ Sniffing, she realised there were tears on her face. She pushed herself up so that she was sitting again, her arms wrapped around her knees.  _This was worse than the catacombs. At least there she had not been conscious. It was too silent…unnervingly silent._   _The sackcloth seemed to dampen all noise now that they were in the baggage compartment. No sound._ She listened…and then pulled the pendant-watch out from her shirt, holding it up to her ear.  _Ticking_. She sniffed again…and then curled up again, counting the seconds until she fell asleep.

 _She would be calm. She would make this trip…and she would come out on the other side. It would be wonderful. Beautiful. It would be Paris, city of…_ She scrunched up her face, striving to remember the rest of that sentence. _City of…_

… _of nothing._

 _For all she knew, Paris could be another fleapit. City of lice. City of lycans. City of…_  It came to her moments before she lost consciousness. Exhausted, her head dropped to the wooden flooring, the watch clasped between her fingers.  _…love._ _Of course. Paris was the city of love. How could she forget? It was another blank slate where her memories had been…but she remembered now._ She smiled faintly. _  
_

_She was going to the city of love._

_'Love.'_

_Ha._ She sighed. _If only the wheels of the train could accidentally love Lucian on their way out of the station. He would make such a lovely smear on the tracks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darf ich Ihnen meine Freundin Sabine vorstellen? - May I introduce my friend, Sabine? (Formal)
> 
> Ich freue mich, Sie kennenzulernen, Frau Tattergreisin. - I am pleased to meet you, Madam Old Woman. (Formal and rude, if Reinette could only understand her.)


	17. Murder on the Orient

**Chapter XVII: Murder on the Orient**

_The Orient Express, 4:30 am._

"Be still, Sabine."

"Will she be able to breathe?"

"Yes." Lucian did not look up, maintaining the steady pace of his handwriting. They sat in their four-bed sleeping car, petroleum lamps sustaining a warm glow on their faces. Though the train rattled like a horse-drawn reaper, the movement had become imperceptible after the first twelve hours on board. The window drapes were shut.

"How?" Placed on the top-bunk and not allowed to leave its boundaries, Sabine was skipping over the small, tanned-leather bag Allegra had packed for her. Her bed was cluttered with its contents. She had the weary pitch of a child that had been confined for too long. "Do they breathe differently?"

"Ask Raze." He drew a line beside  _1896_ , adding three slanted marks beside the date.

She crawled to the side of her bed, peering over the side, her hair falling amok. "Raze, can she breathe?"

"Yes." Raze was grinding a bone between his teeth, working away at the last bits of marrow as if he wanted to savour every bite. "…and there are enough holes that she will not suffocate unless we leave her behind."

While explaining this, the lycan casually reached into his bag, untying one of the waxed paper bundles Allegra had packed for them.  _Beef rations_. Removing his pocket-knife, he sliced a sizeable chunk from one of the rations and passed it to the girl. She snatched it up quickly and retreated behind her bed-drapes to feed, pacified for the moment. Neither lycan made any issue over her lack of manners.  _It was not common for lycan children to thank the hand that fed them. Most were spoiled for what they represented: life, progression, advancement…the next generation of soldiers under constant threat of eradication._  When the sound of gnawing stopped, she crawled out from behind her bed-drapes and wiped her fingers on her shirt. The meat had been smoked, so the stain was more greasy than bloody _._ _Dressed in breeches, at least she was starting to resemble a boy._   _A nine-year-old girl travelling in the same compartment as a gentleman and his manservant raised too many questions. She was listed as "William Eichel" on her ticket._

"Lyosha, I want to leave my bunk," she moaned.

Without comment, he drew another line.

" _Please_." She had an expectant look on her face, as if ' _please'_  could make miracles.

"I will play a game with you, Sabine," he said pleasantly, closing his book for a moment. "For every  _hour_  that you are silent, you will receive a minute off your bunk."  _Contrary to his orders, the girl had left their compartment, hiding in another sleeping-car to play a game of tacks with mortal children. Whether Sabine knew it or not, she could have been spotted. He had carted her off before any harm was done, but the potential had been there._

"I will be  _very_  still." She crouched, wiping her nose on her arm. "I promise, I will be quiet and good like…like a  _mouse_."

"Mice are not still."

"But I did not mean to do it." She knelt on the bed, pleading and wrapping her fingers together. "Alena wanted to know about my ear and Edward said I could play with them if I pretended to be a girl, but I told them I was a wolf, and they said that was…"

"Enough, Sabine." He opened his book again, determined at least to finish the margin of this journal entry. He continued writing in code, each letter standing for another letter depending upon where it resided in the sentence. It took patience and thought to write in code, but he had mastered his focus enough to be able to do it without interruption.

_1896 / Branded stock retrieved from denless friend, completed rendez-vous with…_

" _Pleeease_ , Lyosha…please." Sabine folded herself in two, beating her fists against the bed covers. " _Please_  …"

_Ugh._

His pen had skewed off the page.  _The entry was marred._   _She sounded like a whining dog with its neck in a twist._  Scowling, he looked to Raze, impatiently seeking that margin of support for dealing with creatures under the age of naïve. Rather than help, the lycan reached into his bag yet again, retrieving yet  _another_  ration for the girl.  _Right._ Lucian smiled, nodding to himself, crossing out the marred stretch of code.  _First they'd run out of food._ He crossed out another stretch.  _Then Sabine would starve. And then maybe_ …He scratched the date out.  _Just maybe, he'd be able to write!_ Incensed, he abruptly flung his pen at the girl, forgiving her marginally for how quickly she caught it.  _If discipline could follow reflexes, in time, she'd make an excellent front-runner. "_ You remain in the compartment," he said. "Is that understood?"

"Thank you!" She climbed off the bed, repeating the word  _'thank you'_ approximately a hundred times in ten seconds. Barely touching the floor, she scaled the sides of his bunk, pulling herself up to sit next to him. Confident, she dropped the pen by his hand and then crawled forward, her fingers immediately veering for the sewing kit near his feet.

"Stay out of the kit."

She changed her target to the ivory comb. "May I have it?" she asked openly, touching the small teeth with care.

"No." He kicked her lightly with his foot, not entirely displeased that she dodged the blow quicker than she caught the pen. Even had he made contact, the kick was too light to hurt anyone. "Use your own comb."

"It is too painful. I want  _this_  one."

"That one is taken." He retrieved the pen and started writing again.  _Completed rendez-vous with…_

"May I have  _these_?" She was shaking the matches in their cardboard box.

"No."

" _This_?"

It was the shrill sound of metal scraping across wood.  _He knew that sound._  Abruptly, he closed his book and snatched her latest find out of hand, effectively pushing her off the bed. Like any lycan over the age of two, she landed on her feet, but as she straightened, her mouth opening in protest, a silver blade came through the wall, stabbing the air where she had been. Again, the shrill sound of metal.  _Bloods_. With a sharp intake of breath, Lucian threw himself back against the bed drapes, avoiding the second blade by inches.  _Weapon. He needed a long weapon. Only the pocket-knife and claws…_  Forced to act mid-fall, he wrenched the drapes out of their sockets, tearing the metal pole off with his claws. Before he hit the ground, he swung inwards, still gripping the pole, landing on the lower bunk and stabbing upwards through the wall. He heard a grunt, the cry of a woman. Twisting the pole, he retracted it, taking in the red smear that proved he had made contact.  _One down. There had to be two more…he could hear one of them dragging the woman's body back from the wall. They had not expected the…_

_BHAM!_

Before he could move, a shotgun had blown a gaping hole in the wall next to his head, smoke drifting from the open wound. He blinked at the hole, the echo of the spent slug still resounding in his ears. _Apparently_ _,_ _Allegra had packed more for Raze than just meat rations._ _There was blood-spatter_  dripping from the hole.  _Whoever had been dragging that body had just had their torso blown off._  He looked behind him, spying the barrel of what Raze was now re-loading in under five seconds. The muffled sound of running drew their heads in the same direction…five inches to his right. He ducked, rolling off the bed. The shotgun fired. _BHAM!_ A third grunt and the sound of a final body dropping to the floor. There were screams coming from the other compartments. Cries of ' _we're under attack_ ', ' _save u_ s', and  _'what the devil is going on?'_  Chaos as doors slid open along the train, women fainting wildly, while men rushed about in their evening gowns trying to find a rival to shoot.

_Sabine…_

On his side, covered in wood-dust, Lucian got to his feet, brushing himself off, his eyes scanning the room for Sabine. She was cowering beneath one of the beds.  _Lycan children were taught to run…hide. Never face an enemy unless they had the moon on their side._  She was unhurt. Glowering, Raze was still aiming the shotgun at the wall… The lycan pointed two fingers to the door and then left.  _He would go round the back. Make certain they had killed their quarry._ Left in the room, Lucian snapped his fingers, getting Sabine to look at him. When she did, he drew three fingers in a circle and then brought them together in a fist. She swallowed, and then nodded, creeping out of her hiding place.  _Get the essentials_ , he had told her. She picked up her coat and Raze's pocket-knife. He retrieved his journal from the floor, the meat-rations, as well as the wooden box Sabine had been handling moments before the attack. Everything he packed in one of the food-sacs. After a moment's thought, he picked up the sewing kit and ivory comb as well. The laudanum went in his pocket, clinking as it settled beside the remains of his watch.  _The rest did not matter._   _The officials would be coming presently, and with three bodies on their tab, they could not tarry here._

Wrapping his arm in the remnants of the drapes, Lucian broke the window, mildly flinching as a gust of wind blew the glass back towards him. Outside, the night air was cold, the distant mountains black beneath clouds and rain, the land covered in rocks and hills. He could hear a river below them…it had to be the Rhine. German or French countryside, he could not tell, but whichever it was, they would meet it from a sharp sixty-degree angle.  _Eighty feet from the bottom._   _Sixteen hours from Paris…not the ideal place to leave the train, but what choice did they have?_

Behind him, the door slid open and shut, Raze stepping over the tattered drapes to take Sabine up onto his back, like a great wolfhound carrying a mouse. At Lucian's silent question, the lycan grimly signed with one hand, handing the shotgun over and taking a tighter hold on Sabine.  _They are dead,_ he reported _. One mortal travelling with them…killed at least an hour earlier. The authorities come now. We should leave._ Lucian nodded, keeping the shot-gun pointed towards the door, his back to the window, inhaling and exhaling in time, breathing the scent of his own adrenaline.  _He would need it_. As they reached the bend in the tracks, he reached out, touching Sabine's remaining ear-lobe for a moment, reassuring her with contact. She looked pale, but remarkably calm considering their present situation.  _They would never know if the attack was her fault…but they had survived, so there was no sense in holding it against her now._ _She had never done this before_ _…_ _but it would be alright. She would live._

_The bend in the tracks._

_Now._

He grabbed hold of the window-sill with one arm and swung outwards, freefalling for under a second, using his claws to stop the fall, the earth sliding between his fingers, threatening to let him slip over the cliff-side. Even under control, it seemed like water was rushing toward him. Four feet from the edge, Raze was sliding faster than he was, finally clawing to a stop with a single-arm, Sabine clinging tight around his neck. Above them, the train was still going. The rackety clatter of the horse-drawn reaper leaving them behind. For thirty seconds in the dark, they hung there, listening as the train passed on its way, proving that even murder could not stop the Orient Express. The rain was pelting his face…his grip was precarious.  _Time to climb._

Hauling himself up with an arm and a gun, he slowly and carefully scaled his way back, peering over the side when he reached the summit, watching the steel back of the train…  _No movement on the tracks. No deathdealers jumping from the roof._ Satisfied, he swung himself up, gripping the iron rail to balance himself, keeping his body low to the flat surface. Ten more seconds passed. He could hear Raze following with Sabine, keeping her on his back when they crawled out on the tracks. The one looked fine, while the other was shivering, her hair plastered to her face, her coat soaked…she smiled though. Still high off his adrenaline, Lucian returned half of the smile…and then reached into his bag, taking out the ivory comb and handing it to her. She wiped her nose and then grinned, hiding it away in her coat.  _Good girl. She had kept her head._  He pointed a thumb up and then two fingers to the right.  _They had to get under cover.  
_

Wasting no time, they hiked off the track and into the woods, following the train at a breakneck pace, one sniffing and safe-checking the way forward while the other came behind with Sabine.  _It was safer in the woods. Deathdealers loved a rainy night, but they would hesitate to go on a trek through Rhine-territory two hours before sunrise._ As they covered ground, catching up to the train, the gap between him and Raze began to grow…and soon it was Lucian by himself, the bag on his back, loping about a kilometre behind the train. Until now, he had set aside all concerns regarding the two exiles still on board the Express.  _Both containers had a random passenger name written upon the label, thus muddying the waters between himself and the safe-boxes. Depending on how long they had been followed, it was quite possible the safe-boxes were untouched._

_If they were alive, Kolya and Reinette would not arrive in Paris until eight in the evening…not for another fourteen hours. Before that, he, Raze, and Sabine would have to veer off the track in order to enter the city, thus leaving their prisoners' trail for a time…but he would trust the Line to worry on that. By now, the Parisian den would know of the two containers labelled with scent, arriving from Vienna with high-priority content. Whatever happened, someone would pick them up from the station. The den might give them an unruly welcome…but it was better than being caught by deathdealers. He did not even want to think on whether that ambush had occurred before or after a baggage-check.  
_

_Kolya was expendable…_

… _but Reinette, he needed alive._

Breathing hard, he slowed his pace and came to a stop, turning to stare back towards the east.  _Almost sunrise_. Raze and Sabine were out of sight, a few paces behind, following the trail he was laying.  _The train was not far ahead, so he could stand to wait a while._   _It was a common saying that lycans did not rest until they saw the sun…but it was only a few more minutes._ Unshouldering the bag, he crouched on the ground, letting his arms hang over his knees, catching his breath. In all honesty, he was still bothered over Allegra and Reinette's commentary from the previous night. He had brooded on it. He might have lost sleep over it had he been less than a laudanum addict.

 _How could she think all that? Of course, he was a sensitive man_ … _and he had_ every _consideration for women. He loved women._ Feeling introspective, he picked up a twig, starting to shave the leaves off with his nail. Something to do with his hands while he waited.  _Reinette was barely one, but certainly, he did not want her dead. He wanted her alive…if only for the soreness she'd have after leaving that box._ _And since when had Allegra not enjoyed her time as his mistress?_

 _The way she spoke, she made it sound like a prison sentence. Had he not faced hell and highwater for her?_ _Two years of giving into her every whim, her every need. Theatre, opera, ballet, every scrap of fabric to grace the Parisian catalogue covers. That woman had dined like a queen…by herself most days, but he had priorities._ He thwacked the twig sharply against the dirt, breaking it in the process.  _He was not the difficulty…women were. Wheedling their way into his bed, one after the other…_

' _Lyosha, your shirt needs darning…'_

' _Lyosha, your breeches are dirty …'_

' _Lyosha, your quarters…are they bigger than other lycan's?'_

 _How the hell was he supposed to stick to one woman when every second word out of every second mouth had to do with his breeches, his pants, and under it all, the state of his ass?_ In the midst of this bitter soliloquy, he heard Raze and Sabine approaching, Raze almost silent, but still perceptible on the woody pathways.  _His subordinate might seem a great wolfhound, but after a time…even wolfhounds grew tired._ Sabine was a little louder, certainly exhausted, but keeping up for the most part.  _It was alright for her to stretch her legs for a while_ _…_

Exhaling, Lucian got to his feet, grabbed the bag and started loping again. _When they reached Paris, he would give Sabine the sewing kit. It was questionable what she saw in it, but then like Reinette_ _…_ _she probably assumed he kept strange and mysterious treasures in metal tins. Speaking of fish-crone_ _…_ He leaped over a log, ducking beneath a branch. _…h_ _e'd already gone through too much trouble for that woman to see her die in a box._   _Alive and sore, that was the ticket._ _Alive and sore._ He began running faster as sunlight touched his back. _She'd be fine_ _…_

_…_ _he was sure of it._


	18. The Questioning

**Chapter XVIII: The Questioning  
**

_Paris, France._

_6:07 am. Thirty-six hours later…_

"Where are they?"

She breathed. "I do not know."

" _Where are they?"_  The lycan-woman drew her arm back. She was standing in front of a gas-lamp, her face a vacant silhouette looming above.

Reinette closed her eyes, preparing for contact. She understood that her interrogator was evil…that this tawny-eyed woman was just beating her. That it did not matter what she said. "I do not… _know_."

The back of her head struck the floor, causing her to spit blood, the liquid running down her neck _. She wished it had gone farther._   _She wanted to spit in that woman's face._ She no longer cared that one of her eyes was caked shut. The room kept drifting in and out of focus.  _Stars. How could she be seeing stars?_  She knew they were in a sewer.  _Paris, city of sewers and concrete and lying on a floor for twenty-four hours after being dragged out of a box, stripped and beaten. They had taken the time-piece…the clothing. Everything. It was a wonder that her teeth were still in._

"From the beginning." The woman was speaking Latin…very  _badly_ , she might add, but then she should not complain. It had taken them almost half a day to believe she spoke no French.  _How many times were they to go through this? How could she have had anything to do with their disappearance? They had nailed her inside a box for bloods' sake._ The woman was raising her hand again…her thoughts costing her.

She swallowed, answering quickly. "We were…travelling from Vienna. Lyosha, Raze, Sabine, Kolya, and I." She had no qualms about giving names; she would have sold her own mother at this point. She had sold Kolya already. She had told them everything she knew about him…his past, his murder. "There is a woman in Vienna…a lycan woman named Allegra. She can confirm my…"

The hand slapped her across the face.  _Spots_. She saw spots this time.  _Please…stop…hitting me,_ she thought, suddenly disoriented…unable to focus on her assailant _._   _How did they expect her to answer? What was the point? These lycans were sick. Whenever she seemed about to pass out, they fed her…first a goat, then a hen…now a rat. They had pushed it in her face, but she would not drink. Never another rat…_

"Start again."

_He had promised her…never another…rat._

"We were travelling from Vienna."

_He had given her a time-piece._

" _Again!" Slap. "_ The beginning. Use different words."

 _Different words._  She began to laugh.  _At the start, she had feared for her secret. She had feared they would find out she was a blood-seer… but these lycans were clean…careful around vampires. They kept their blood to themselves. If anyone were to stumble on this place, they would only find her body and the pair of gloves this bitch was beating her with. She knew…when she woke, it would start all over again. The lycans had all day…and all night._ "We were t-travelling from…"

_Another slap._

"…Vienna." She was on her front now, slipping on the blood. The floor was freezing… She no longer cared if she was naked. That dignity was gone. Stripped.  _She had been so sure of herself…planning to poison him when the time came…and then the train…that bloody train happened._

_Slap!_

She blinked, unsure whether to trust the sound. The wet sound of skin hitting against skin.  _She could no longer tell the difference between numbness and pain._  She was lying on her back now.  _"_ We…all of us…together…we were travelling _…"_ Her head was starting to weave and dip, like a music box, playing the same bloody music over and over again.  _They did not care whether she looked the part of an old woman. To these animals, she was a vampire. An enemy. A creature on the other side._

"Start again."

"We came f-from Vienna."

" _Again."_

_No…_

… _more._

 _She was ready to pass out now._ "We came from…Vienna…" Pulling herself up on her knees, she managed to spit towards the woman, most of the blood landing on the floor. "…and when Lyosha gets back here, you  _bitch,_ he's going to make you…" The rest of her sentence ended with a blow to the head. She sank to the floor and then deeper…the black took her.

_No more stars._

_o…o…o_

_Butte Montmartre, Paris. 6:07 am…_

Leaning on a doorstep with a bottle in his hand, Lucian took a healthy swig, easily swallowing the cheap, grainy taste of whisky. Even though it was early in the morning, he stayed where he was, hidden among the street-walkers of Butte Montmartre. It was the 18th arrondissement of Paris, a veritable maze of narrow streets, the criminal-strewn safe-haven of lycans trying to move unseen through the city. The sun had just risen, but the place was crowded with drunks making their way home to the poorhouse, whores flitting about workers on their way to church. The  _Sacred Heart,_ or whatever they were planning to call it, looking down at them from the hilltop. Twenty years they had been working on it and the outside was still incomplete. Much like his entry into the Parisian den.

 _Last night, they had expected to slip inside the city from the Seine…but they had missed the daylight. Paris was not a small city…but all the entrances had been crawling with deathdealers._   _No entry through the Seine. No entry through the catacombs. No entry through Montmartre. Raze was no longer with them. About an hour ago, they had split up within the city-limits, Raze choosing the more clandestine route through the cemetery…and therefore the more dangerous. The lycan was on his own now…_

… _as were they._

He stood, taking another swig before carrying on his way, searching for a front-runner to give him the entrance-key. Past the grunting beggars, the crazy man drawing circles with chalk, the catcalls of the drunken dancer wearing too much make-up. Playing the drunk as well, Lucian gesticulated woozily at her before continuing on his way, deeper into the crowd, through the merchant stands, past the rotund woman trying to sell him her wares.

_Wares._

"For the little girl," she said, pointing to one of the ribbons. He paused, looking hazily at the trimming. It was a pitiful thing…probably ripped off the hair of a whore, and before that, off the hair of someone who could afford it. With only the top of her head showing, Sabine was on his back, fast asleep and wrapped in a blanket they had scrounged from a doorstep…she was not used to hard travelling.

"How much?" he asked wearily, the question of a travel-stained, drunken father trying to do right by his daughter. She named a price…far too high. They bartered until it came down to something approaching sense. He paid with a coin worth two centimes, and then, eying the crowd, he ambled into an alleyway and through a short door to his left, entering the barebones of a poor-house now running as a bakery.  _If the ribbon she pointed at had been blue, he would have searched for another entrance. As it was, she had chosen red. It was the all-clear._

Inside the bakery, one of the workers, a small boy covered in soot, took the ribbon and led him into the back. The walls were filthy, a mixture of flour and coal dusting the air. They walked past an old furnace no longer working and then ducked through a door behind it, the stairs steep and bringing them down into a second cellar. Lucian followed the boy, but he was using his nose to tell him where they were…the scent of barley, figs, iron, birch, and honeysuckle.  _The first three scents signified a lycan haven…the fourth indicated safety…and the fifth told them they approached the French den. Of course, the French would use honeysuckle for their calling scent._  Inside the cellar, they entered a tunnel passing directly beneath the buildings above. Dug in the eighteenth century, the walls were still scratched with slogans from the revolution… _The Nation, the Law, the King! Liberty, equality, fraternity._ It was like reading history on stone…and he remembered. He remembered living in this den once; he had left before the guillotine could steal his head.

Having drifted in his mind, he made himself focus on the space in front of him, realising the walls were getting lighter. They were approaching the boundaries of the den and as they walked, his guide, the small boy, raised the ribbon up high in front of their path. It did not surprise him. There were holes in the brick walls surrounding them and though he neither saw nor heard them, he knew both he and the boy were being watched, targeted by those whose job it was to protect this tunnel. After sixty paces, they reached the end, an iron door with a bowl lying on the left side. The boy bowed to him and then to the door, placed the ribbon on the bowl and left him there.  _Ridiculous how formal things had become here, but then the Parisian den had always been sticklers for ritual._  After a moment, he heard the sound of the door unlocking. Blinded, he had to shade his eyes to the light before entering, and then nodded in thanks to the grimy man who let him across the threshold. The lycan locked the door and then bowed his head, indicating his respect for the alpha before returning to his post.

There was still another door to pass through, but this time it was unlocked. When he shut it behind him, for the first time in about two weeks, he felt a sense of security. The entrance hall stretched out, built on the same level as the sewers, but not in the bounds of any map. The walls were a yellowish-tan colour, the same brick from the tunnel, but now bathed in light. Three furnaces, almost two feet high kept the hall warm, but contrary to how it had been in the past, there were now gas-lamps overhead.  _Excellent…Auguste had started moderni_ s _ing. Candles were from the dark ages._  He stood observing the ceiling until from a hallway to his left, a comely, rogue-haired woman came forward to take Sabine from his back. She looked familiar, though the name escaped him. She was dressed in the garb of a serving-woman, yet it seemed she had taken pains to make sure her bosom had overstretched her corset. Perhaps to her disappointment, he feigned lack of notice when her hand passed over the back of his breeches as she took Sabine.

_Obviously they had met before…_

… _but he could show interest later. For now, all he cared for was that Sabine would be cared for in the women's quarters, while he slept elsewhere_ … Thanking the woman respectfully, he turned into another passageway, searching for the men's quarters, using his nose to find his way. Predictably, the place was almost deserted, a bruised lycan sleeping on one of the twenty-four beds and another cleaning the storage cabinets. The cleaner ducked his head.  _During the day, lycans did not loiter…they worked. They had lives…secret ones albeit, but lives nonetheless._   _Only a portion of them lived in the den where communal living was the rule. Lovers had to find their own rules._ Only Auguste was there to greet him, the short pack-leader stalking forward to welcome him with a bowed head. He had a bowl-cut, his beard shined to a point, standing bow-legged like Napoleon of the lycan fleet.

"Lyosha," he said in French. "…my God, Lyosha, it  _is_  you."

"Auguste." Dropping on one of the beds, he allowed the pack-leader to take his bag and the whisky-bottle. Bloods, he needed a bath. "Has Raze come?"

"No…but by God's grace, he will make it through." The man smiled with gusto. "My spies watch their spies…a game of cat and mouse where the true adversary is the wolf. But thank God, you are well, Lyosha…thank God," he said again.  _Auguste had been a priest in his youth. The lycan must be visiting the basilica to be making claims on religion again._  "When you did not arrive, we assumed the worst. No one could get on the train, and the damn cars were taken during the night. One of my scouts was there, but he could not approach. People spoke of blood-stains, murder taking place. They said there was a body, Lyosha, but…thank God, you are well."

"The containers…"

"We have them, but…" The pack-leader indicated that they should stand, perhaps move towards the farther end of the room. "…they were questioned, Lyosha. We could not risk taking them to the exiles' quarter without…being certain."

Lucian felt his throat tighten.  _He had hoped it would not come to this._  He did not move from his place on the bed…and he did not lower his voice. "You interrogated them?"

"You were not there to vouch for them, Lyosha. These people rely on me. We have never been broken…what would you have me do? Welcome a…" His voice lowered. "…a vampire into my den when the safety of our leader is in question? Without daylight, there was no way of knowing if your cargo had anything to do with your ambush."

"Did you contact Allegra?"

"Of course, but…perhaps we should speak on this in my quarter. We did not know if you were alive or dead, Lyosha…you must…" The small man eyed the cleaner at the far end of the room, choosing his words carefully.  _All lycans knew that Aleksey Itzhak was the alpha…they knew, but the younger ones were not privy to the details of his origin. Vampires could force information…and if a lycan was not old enough…strong enough, he might let information slip before his death-rattle._  "…be more careful that this."

"Do not harp on me, Auguste." It was a simple order, and the pack-leader immediately bowed his head. They were all wary of his moods. Envious of that bruised lycan, Lucian let his hands rest on the bed-cover a moment longer… _damn, it would be good to sleep._ "Damn," he said aloud. "Damn…damn… _damn_ , Auguste. I comprehend the need for your actions, but which part of high-priority content did you not understand?" The pack-leader put his hands together like a priest, gracious enough to start on his explanation again, but he waved it aside.  _It seemed he still had to pick up his luggage._  "Where are they being held?"

The lycan pointed to the east. "The Chambers. Not far from here. The 11th arrondissement…"

"You will take me there…" Lucian stood, stretching his neck, hearing a crack as he did. He would need a massage when this was all over. He would have to find that serving-woman.

"Of course, Lyosha." The lycan held up his arm, indicating the direction they must go, one of the countless tunnels leading from this place. "Though may I suggest we send my manservant in your place, lycan-master. You must be tired, and it would be good for morale if the lycans saw you after you have…"

"The scent,  _Auguste_." He started into the tunnel, knowing the pack-leader would follow. "Follow it."

"Very well, lycan-master. As you say."

_o…o…o_

_The 11_ _th_ _arrondissement. Twenty minutes later._

Kolya was in a bad condition when they arrived, his features marred, his nose broken. " _Friends_ ," he whispered to the three lycans holding him. They had not held back. "I am his friend …you  _see_." His teeth were red. He did not complain when Lucian told him to follow the same three men back to the exiles' quarter…though he had to be carried. The vampire would be in the infirmary until he healed.

_Dens always maintained an exiles' quarter, an underground district far from the lycan quarters, but within the jurisdiction of the pack-leader. If the quarter was ever attacked, its inhabitants would have no way of finding a den they had never entered. For the length of their stay, he had intended Kolya…and eventually Reinette, to be housed in the French exiles' quarter, located in the 9_ _th_ _arrondissement…_

… _Pigalle, they called it above ground._

He inhaled…and then turned the handle of the second cell. He signalled Auguste to wait outside, smelling Reinette the moment the door opened, her blood, her bitterness. He closed the door behind him, aware that she could not see him yet. Above, there was a single light, a gas-lamp swaying in the air, throwing shadows in the corners, illuminating her where she lay on the floor, naked and bruised. Rena standing above her, tawny-eyed Rena who hated the vampires. Silence…utter silence that told him how deep they were beneath the ground. How thick the walls were. At his appearance, Rena bowed her head, lowered her fist and then stepped back to the wall, hands behind her back, her eyes facing forward.  _She had been an exceptional soldier once…a fine creature before the skirmish. Now she carried stone inside of her. She was not at fault for what happened here._ _No one was at fault. Not himself… Not Auguste… It was merely the outcome of war_. _Like Allegra had told her, they were at war. Vampires and lycans…exiles and non-exiles. This was not his fault._

He almost changed his mind when she rolled onto her side. She had caught sight of him. Disturbingly enough, she did not weep. She did not cry.  _She had been stripped of more than just her clothing. There was a hardness in her scent. One of her eyes refusing to open, but the other… blue. The sharpest blue, her scent thorny enough to pierce the nose._  She stared at him and then spat, a spray of red melding with the pool on the floor. It smelled of goat's blood. _Bastard,_ she had said. Across the room, Rena glanced at him. It was a cold-iron question of whether she should step in, her hands unwinding from behind her back. Lucian merely shook his head, holding up two fingers, signalling her to hold as he slowly walked forward. He stepped over the pool and crouched beside Reinette's face, neither frowning nor smiling.

"Can you stand?" he said.

"F-fuck you _."_

He exhaled, having expected this…but still considering how best to approach the situation.  _Rena should not have taken it this far…but then deathdealers had taken it further when they had held Rena. Her sons had died during that skirmish. All of them._  "I am aware you are bitter, Reinette…" he said quietly, removing the laudanum from his pocket.  _By no means did he feel the need to apologi_ s _e._  "…but it was not my intention for you to be questioned on the eve of your arrival." That was as much as she would get from him. "As it is, I can do nothing but have Rena take you to the infirmary." He held up the bottle so she could see it. "With laudanum or without it…your choice."

Her eye narrowed.

"My choice?" She began to crawl away from him, the red smear following her. "This has  _never_  been about my choices, Lyosha." Too exhausted to move any further, she let herself onto the ground. "I did not ask for this…I did not ask for you. For your den…for your…" Swallowing, she directed her words to the lycan-interrogator. "… _p-pig_  of a questioner."

"Rena is not under my jurisdiction," he said, giving her the facts.  _Welcome to the politics of lycan living._  "She was told to question you and she did so in a manner that kept you alive." He removed the drop-cap from the laudanum bottle and made to take her jaw in his hand. "…now I suggest you drink this. It will numb the pain."

"No." She started crawling toward the door. "I  _like_  the pain, Lyosha…it reminds me of you." She hissed, her teeth covered in blood still. "Why are you  _here_  anyway? I am certain Lyosha has more important things to do. I am certain, Lyosha has places to  _be_ …"

"We were  _delayed_ ," he said curtly.  _Reinette had stopped slurring her words…and it seemed as long as Rena was not beating the skin off her back, she had enough energy for back-talk._ Again, Rena looked questioningly at him, her arms unwinding, but he would have none of it.  _He would deal with this himself…_

"Wait outside, Rena…" he ordered. "…and give my regards to your pater."  _He had not seen her father in some years, but the man had been a good soldier. Years ago when Rena was just a girl in an apron, the man had saved his life once. He had never forgotten._

Rena bowed her head and idled towards the door. ' _Idled'_  was a strong word. She took her time with each step, obviously keen to hear the rest of the exchange. _It was always interesting when a prisoner attempted to tongue-lash a lycan-master…_

… _and Reinette was doing it from the floor._

"You were  _delayed_?" she said scornfully. "Maybe if I had a time-piece, Lyosha, I would have noticed your absence…except…" Cynical, she touched a hand to her neck, searching for the absent piece. "…oh, yes, of course. That  _bitch_  confiscated it."

 _She was repeating him now. Mistresses repeated him…fancy women repeated him…not prisoners. But then twenty-four hours under Rena's hand could turn anyone scornful. So she was bitter. He could understand that_ … _but after the night he had just had, it was beyond aggravating to hear the tone in her voice. Used to respect, he had almost forgotten people could speak to him in this manner._

"We will find the time-piece," he muttered, starting to grow irritated by Rena's presence.  _She was expecting him to allot punishment for Reinette's behaviour, and instead she was witnessing what looked like a man indulging his mistress._

"I do not  _want_  it!" Reinette was yelling now. "None of this is mine, Lyosha…not the clothes. Not the time-piece. Not even my name…"

" _Reinette_ …" He was getting angry. There was a warning in his voice. "…that is enough."

" _Is it?_ " She kept crawling to the door. "…are you going to kill me? Beat me? Whatever you do, Lyosha, I hope you're sleeping with that ignorant bitch because if  _someone's_  getting their grave dug tonight, I want it to be  _her_."

"For bloods' sake,  _woman!_ " He was shouting at Rena now. "…how long does it take you to _get out?_ "

Rena shut the door.

The moment she did, he turned back to Reinette, his volume lowering to a hiss. "I will not  _tolerate_  this any longer, Reinette. You cannot speak to me in this fashion, not in the den. We were delayed, and there is nothing I can do about that. Count your blessings that you are alive."

"Shall I count this one," she sneered, pointing at her eye.

"What are you looking for… _sympathy_?" He stalked in front of her, blocking her way to the door. "You were questioned, you were beaten. I  _cannot_  change that."

To his distaste, she began to laugh. "Then Allegra was  _right,_ Lyosha. I should be joyful, I was only  _beaten_. You must have mistresses just begging to be let out of the ground. Good for me.  _Bad_ …for…them."

The laudanum smashed against the wall, breaking into tiny pieces, the liquid dripping down to mix with the red.  _How dare she act as if she were privy to the details of his existence. Allegra should never have spoken to her on that account._ His hand was bleeding. He lowered it, knowing he would strike her if he raised it again. "You know  _nothing_  of my life," he said icily.

"And yet  _somehow_  I know you are  _failing_  at it." Pure spite coming out of her mouth, she was a demon when she was angry.  _Raving like an opium-hinged lunatic. And when the hell did this become about his life…his mistresses…his choices? What was behind all of it?_

"Is this about your lost youth," he asked suddenly, smiling viciously.  _She was not the only one who could hit low._  "What do you want me to do? Pick up the pieces? Put you back together again?"

"No, Lyosha…you  _break_  things."

"Did I do this… _no!"_  He was roaring at her now. "Will I pick up the pieces… _yes!_  You will be bandaged. You will recover, but there is only  _so_  much I can do for you, woman."

"What is the  _point_  in doing anything?" She truly  _had_  lost her final dignity. Losing her steam, she managed to get to her feet, swaying naked and covered in blood. "If I am a prisoner, Lyosha,  _treat_  me like one, but do not coddle me with dresses if you plan to stone me in the next instance."

"I… _did_ … _not_ …plan this," he snarled.

"Neither do you regret it," she spat, a fleck of blood landing on his cheek.

 _Blood. A vampire had spat blood in his face._ He breathed, slowly using his thumb to wipe it away. His eyes had gone silver.  _She was right…he wanted to stone her. Did she not see the irony in what she was asking for? Raving for equal treatment when he ought to thrash her for insubordination._ _They were always getting it wrong._ _Mistresses. Women. Pack-leaders._ _Was it wrong to treat someone well? Was he such a monster that he had to beat everyone into ground, live up to the legend, be the creature they all assumed he was._

" _Reeena!"_ He bellowed the name.

The door opened. "Yes, Lyosha?"

 _Clearly, Rena had not strayed very far from the handle._ His anger made the shadows behind her as clear as daylight, Auguste watching him with a perceptive look on his face.  _Let the man watch…he had probably heard enough to make him think twice on what had occurred in this room._  "Get her to the infirmary. Once she is healed, every item is to be returned to her in the space of an hour. You will treat her as if she is made of glass. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Lyosha."

…but Reinette hissed angrily, letting herself fall back to the floor, backing away on her palms. "Do not touch me," she warned. "Do not  _ever_  touch me."

Looking to him rather than her, Rena's face was expressionless, as if she had no opinion on the matter. Her voice was without tone or feeling, her words loyal to the alpha. "May I touch glass, Lyosha?"  _She had been alive during the Revolution. Back then, everyone had an opinion._

" _Yes_ , Rena, you may touch glass," he said, smiling warmly, touching her shoulder once before stepping past her into the hallway. "…and I will see you in my quarters later tonight. We must catch up."  _They were comrades. He had never slept with Rena and he never would…but it pleased him for Reinette to think that tonight, he might be screwing the woman who had just beaten her skin off._ Before Auguste could open his mouth in question, he shook his head and started down the tunnel, using his nose and memory to retrace their steps back to the den.  _He needed sleep_. Reinette was shrieking something behind him…but the words were muffled. Rena was covering her mouth.

_Good._

"Lyosha…"

He kept walking, annoyed at the pestering sound of Auguste catching up to him for a brief word.  _Brief. Auguste was never brief._  And he did not  _want_  to speak on this matter. "Auguste, as you say, I am tired. Therefore you can deduce I am not in the mood to discuss that ranting demon of a…"

"Good God, Lyosha…" The pack-leader grinned, clearly amused at his alpha's incessant belief in his own ability to predict words. "…you do not know  _everything_. I am not a priest for nothing. Now confess. Tell me…I must know how long you will stay. The morale of the troops…it will be raised."

"Not more than a…"

"A week is not enough, Lyosha." Auguste made a sound of laughing disgust, raising his hands in protest as they walked, stilling his tongue with a disclaimer. "Always you pass through the dens…you are like a ghost, but this time…this time, your prisoners must heal. The child must rest. And think of the deathdealers, Lyosha…they are everywhere. They could fall out of the ceiling above us." The lycan was obviously exaggerating in his attempt to connive an official visit from the alpha. "Truly, you must lie low, lycan-master. You must stay with us." His hands came together, the priest beseeching the sinner.

Lucian stared. "Two weeks," he said.

"Three," exclaimed Auguste. "I will inform the chef."

"Auguste, there is no need for…"

"The  _chef_ , Lyosha…" Smelling sharp suddenly, the pack-leader was clearly offended at the prospect of not demonstrating how magnificent and formal his den was. If they had been speaking of anything but food, he might have labelled the smell as dangerous…but then the lycan stalked off, his good humour returning in an instant. "We are not French for nothing, you know. This will be a grand visit, Lyosha. A  _grand_  visit."

_A chef…_

_They were at war…_

… _and the Parisian den had a chef._

Lucian swallowed, feeling a mite concerned…

…and then followed.

_God help him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nation, the Law, the King. – La Nation, la Loi, le Roi.
> 
> Liberty, equality, fraternity. – Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.


	19. A Round of Morale

**Chapter XIX: A Round of Morale**

_The Parisian Den, Noon, Three days later._

A crowd had gathered in the main hall, men and women crammed together on stools and chairs, the short ones standing, the tall ones seated on the floor. There were about three dozen altogether. Though winter was almost upon them, the air was warm in this hall, humid even…steam rising from the three furnaces, sweat on people's skin. Many had discarded their coats and fleece shawls, the rags that kept them hidden on the outside.

Reflective, Lucian stood in the alcove, watching them…studying their faces, the hum of anticipation hovering over their heads. They could not see him yet, but he could see them.  _Three days it had taken for them to gather, these lycans from beyond the den, their children absent, the parents travelling by daylight. How dangerous it was for these lycans who lived under the Line. They were the shadows that hid him…they were his people. But they should not be here._  In the centre, Auguste was standing on a table, his hand gesturing firmly, raising his arms with every declaration of the honour that had come to their den. No one cared to lower their voice. They were too deep beneath the ground for that. Abruptly the pack-leader pointed, every head turning, like a wave, silence falling as all eyes fell on him.

 _Silence for the alpha._  He stepped forward and they parted, their heads lowering in respect and expectation. Hands behind his back, he circled the room, drawing their faces close, their scents mingling with him.  _I am among you,_ he thought.  _I am for you._ They hung on his every turn, allowing him to burn their faces with a glance.  _This is what they had come for._ He leaped onto the table, his hood falling back, his face unmasked so they might see him. So they might understand what kept him fighting this war.

_Rage._

His voice was like iron. "Who among you has lived in fear?" He paused on the question, lingering on silence. He would fill it with belief only when it grew too much. "Who among you?" He turned, aiming his hand into the crowd. "You…" He pointed again, a bearded monster of a man sweating under his notice. "… _you._ " Baring his teeth, he showed them the extent of how serious he was. "All of you. You  _reek_  of fear."

 _They could not deny it._  Many of them looked away. Others stooped, bowing themselves further, acknowledging the underlying stench that plagued this hall.  _Shame. Terror._ No one dared accuse him of hard-heartedness.

"Your children…" he said softly. "…where are they?" Swift, he crouched, striking his palm against the oak table, gazing at them candidly, knowing the truth of his words. " _Hidden_." His hand became a fist. "Your homes…" He forced them to lean in, reaching out only to strike his palm against the table again, making every lycan flinch. " _Hidden!_ "

Silver took his eyes.  _This was what they had come here for, and more, it was what they needed._  Uncurling, he stood high above them, always turning, always watching them as they watched him. "They hunt us," he said coldly. "Even now, they hunt us, my friends…"  _Tonight, there would be no shame in this hall._ "…but we will  _not_  be cowed."  _These lycans would learn the necessity of rage. They knew what came next._

Closing his eyes, like a tradition, he broached his question…one that had resounded for the past eight hundred years.  _"What…are…you?"_

"Lycans…" They began uncertainly.

_"I said, what…are…you?"_

" _Lycans…"_

He opened his eyes. " _Who_  are you?"

" _Lycans!"_

He drank in their fanaticism. "Are you weak?"

" _No!"_

"Can you fight?"

" _Yes!"_

_"Are you with me?"_

The roar was deafening, dust falling from the ceiling above as the columns shivered in their stance.  _These people lived to hide, their existence, their worries tied with their children. All had been warriors of the frontline once…but in these quiet times, they had chosen to hide, procreate under the Line's protection. So far from direct conflict, they needed to believe there was more than just hiding. They needed hope that this war would come to an end, that their children would not have to hide as they did now._ He held up his hand, the signal for silence. Immediately, there was only an echo to serve as a reminder of their passion. The scent of fear had faded, but it would never be gone completely.

"Never forget yourselves," he commanded.  _These words would serve his people in a way he would never fully grasp…years might pass before he saw their faces again. Decades even…but they would remember his coming._ "Though you may hide beneath the day, it is the moon that is your strength. Every hour…every minute, we draw closer to that night when we will claim our birthright. Every second we draw closer to peace…not war, my friends, but  _peace_."

He stepped from the table, landing with a thud on the stone floors, already walking forward into the crowd as he spoke to them…taught them…inspired them. "Your children are not here…" He stressed that point. "…but I say again,  _your_  children will see that night. You must make them ready. You must teach them what you know. Show them the danger of war before you send them from their berth." He let that final thought settle upon them…and then signalled the end of his address, stalking through the alcove from which he came. "Keep to the shadows, survive the war." Behind him, they repeated the mantra before dispersing. The opening address was never a long one…these people were tired, but a glimpse they had wanted. A glimpse they had had. One by one, these lycans would speak to him over the coming days, but for now…this meeting was adjourned. Raze was waiting for him at the end of the tunnel. The lycan had arrived shortly after morning, the day before yesterday. He had not asked after Reinette. Lucian leaned against the side of the tunnel, and then let himself slide to a seat on the rough stone. He was tired. Every day, more of them came. Almost a full den now.

"How many more," he said quietly.

"Eighteen," Raze answered. "…they will be here by tomorrow."

" _Blast_." He stood, stepping around his subordinate, pushing open the door to his quarters.  _The pack-leader's quarters._  Auguste had insisted he take up residence here for the length of his stay. The place was opulent, a roaring fire prepared for him, a tray left on one of the side-tables. Auguste had insisted he dine with the rest of the pack, but after the first night, he had started taking his meals alone.  _He did not consider Raze company._  Picking up the tray, he aimed for a high-backed chair by the fire. "Auguste cannot sustain these numbers, Raze."

"If he would consider the merge with Benoit…"

"He has…" Lucian took the chair, drawing his legs up to sit cross-legged, plucking the cloth from the tray. Blood-wine. Marinated pheasant, garnished with the marrow of bones. The chef had even fashioned a miniature wolf out of aspic, the edible creature baring its teeth at the summit of the marrow.  _It was both elegant and ridiculous_. It was  _French_. He balanced the tray on his knees and began to eat. "…I will not force him, Raze. Not yet. Once I am gone, his presence is another stone in our foundation. We cannot take a mutiny in our centre. The Line cannot take it."

"Of course, Lucian."

"Three weeks and then we are gone. The people hear my voice, see my face. They return to their homes. We will address their capacity for growth at the Gathering of the Horde. Benoit will be there." He bit the head off the wolf.

_o…o…o_

_Exiles' Quarter, Two weeks later._

Reinette turned the page of her book, rubbing her temples as she went over the verb again.  _Tuer. To kill._  She was learning French. Quickly.  _Je tuerai…tu tueras…il tuera…_  Her hair was starting to grow back, a quarter-inch of white, thinner than it once was. She no longer had to wear the wig, but her features remained hidden behind the veil. The lycans had provided a mirror for her, and that morning, she had taken a good look at her face. An hour of staring before she fell asleep, growing used to every wrinkle and age-mark. This was her face. She must grow used to it. Across from her study-table, Rena was playing with an iron puzzle, twelve rings linked together. It was the same puzzle, but the lycan-woman had managed to solve it in six different ways. Apparently there were rules to that as well.

After her ribs had healed, they had moved her from a locked room in the infirmary to a locked room in the Exiles' Quarter. She was unsure whether Lucian had anything to do with it, but she had been restricted to her quarters for the entirety of her time here. Likely he did not want her divulging his name to anyone close by…and after her beating, she sincerely might have done it. The solitude was not completely unwanted however. She had her own facilities, bathing and toilette…but she knew there were others. She could hear a distant buzz, voices, laughter even. She wondered if Kolya was among them. It would be nice to speak to someone. Rena had been her constant companion for the past two weeks, but she had vowed never to speak to or acknowledge the woman's presence.

 _Ever_.

_As far as she was concerned, she was alone in this room._

Unexpectedly, she heard the sound of a key rattling in the lock. She looked up…Rena as well, and before either could remember the volatile nature of their relationship, they looked at one another. Rena shrugged. _She was not expecting anyone either_. Abruptly, Reinette realised she was acknowledging the woman. She had almost asked her a question.  _Over her dead body_. She gave the lycan a firm look of loathing and then returned her focus to the French.  _Stay on your side,_ she thought. Their visitor finished turning the third lock, and the door opened. Though unexpected, she did not need to look up to figure out who it was. Rena stood, bowed and left the room, leaving it unlocked. At least that was what it sounded like. _Lucian was another one she would rather not acknowledge._ _She had not seen him since the questioning_ _, though on occasion, she deigned to consider if he was still screwing the cow across the room. Perhaps he had found riper pickings by now._

He took the other chair. "So how is your eye?" His voice was much softer, much more amiable than the last time they had spoken. When she said nothing, he continued, obviously comfortable with the notion of speaking to someone who abhorred him. "Sabine wishes me to express a desire to see you in good health. She sends her regards."

 _Sabine_. She had almost forgotten the girl. She could not help answering back. "How very kind of her," she muttered. "Hard to believe you could express such a thing after what you…"

"I did not say I would express it."

She raised her eye, finally admitting she would have to look at him eventually.  _Blood, he was prickly. Why mention such a thing if one did not intend to follow through?_  "Do you intend to?"

To her shock, it was oddly reassuring to see his face. He was dressed in browns and greys, the clothing typical of a working-class man, the shirt stained, his breeches filthy. His hair had grown a bit in the two weeks, his feet on the table, Rena's puzzle in his hands. He was solving it…faster than Rena. Moving onto the next, he unlinked the rings and began constructing the second puzzle. "Perhaps."

" _Well_?"

He shrugged, not looking at her. " _Are_  you well?"

It felt as if they were walking on a wire. There was a pause. "Yes," she answered reluctantly, just as careful as he was to avoid the tension of their previous encounter.

"Good." He finished the second puzzle, moving onto the third. This one appeared simpler in his estimation. He had stopped looking at his hands, allowing them to move while he made an obvious inspection of her room with his eyes. There was not much to see…her bed, the sheets neatly folded. Her bags on the floor. The books by the side of her bed. Rena had brought them on her second day in the infirmary. She assumed Lucian had sent them. "We have less than a month till first snowfall. The sooner you recover, the sooner we can leave."

"It might have been sooner had it not happened."

He was on the fourth puzzle. "Well, since we've already established I am a failure in life, Reinette, maybe I should  _fail_  to take you with me…"

"I did not mean…"

"No, you meant what you said. Do not recant simply because you are feeling cordial today." His voice was sharp. Silence followed. He was working even faster now, unlinking and relinking the puzzle as quickly as could be done it seemed.

Almost mesmerised by the movement, she opened her mouth…and then closed it, aware that she would get nowhere with a fight. She was composed. Calm… Two weeks of solitude and already she was glad of the opportunity to speak with another person.

"Is that an order?" she finally asked.

He smiled, looking up. "Yes." The puzzle was now on the table. In six minutes, he had solved every arrangement she had seen Rena frown over for the past two weeks. He leaned back on his chair, starting to get restless. He spied the book in front of her and started playing with his shirt-cuff. Something about it seemed to bother him. "So how is the French going?"

"Ah," she said. _Perhaps they could stick to these two topics. French and the weather._ "The pronunciation is different, but not impossible. Though I believe I have found an error." She flipped to one of her placeholders, a torn piece of parchment from one of the drawers in the desk. "See… _here_ …" Searching out the appropriate line, she turned the book around and pointed to the sentence. "…these two, are they not the same?"

Unenthusiastic, he eyed her and then took the book, frowning at the passage she had pointed out. Clearly the smell of book was too much for him to resist, but he seemed to feel the need to point out that it should not be him that taught her French. Before even looking at the sentence in question, he flipped past the page, muttering over the indignity of it. "There is a reason I set Rena as your guard, Reinette. Her Latin is stilted, but her French is excellent. I'm certain she will be able to solve your dilemma."

_Rena._

So he  _was_  sleeping with the cow.

"I have no idea whom you're talking about, Lyosha," she said serenely. "…I live alone."

Forehead pursed, Lucian looked up at her declaration…and then laughed quietly, returning his gaze to the book. He only looked at it for a moment and then began flipping through the rest of the translations. "She stays as your guard." Finally convinced she was not hiding an army between the pages, he returned the book to her, holding the page-marker with his finger, his voice taking on the patronising tone of one who was infatuated with his own edification. "As you can see, they are opposites, Reinette. The first is  _dessus_ , meaning 'on top of.' The second is  _dessous,_ with an 'o-u', meaning 'beneath.' It can be hard to remember, but once your eye has healed, you'll be able to spot the extra letter." He took his boots off the table and stood, clearly at the end of his ability to sit still.

"Mmph…" she nodded, staring at the mud he had left behind on the table. "I appreciate your help, Lyosha. I am certain I will figure out some system of memory that suits us both."

"Like an 'o-u,'" he said bluntly.

" _Dessus_ , as in you.  _Dessous_ , as in her. How does that work?"

"Ha." He barked a laugh. Picking up the rings, he started to unlink them, aiming for the door. "…very amusing and the worst innuendo I've heard in history, Reinette. Did you come up with that yourself?"

"Oh, there was the ignorant whore sitting across from me as well," she said modestly, rubbing her neck.  _She was still sore, but she was getting stronger. They fed her three times a day in this place. Not younger…but stronger._

He smiled, but rather than rise to the occasion, he began linking the rings together again…this time in a pattern she had not seen. A seventh pattern. "Does that bother you?"

"What? The ignorant whore?"

"Being alone."

"Why would it?" She could no longer see the pattern this time; he was working too fast, linking and unlinking…building a prism of sorts. "Maybe if I had a puzzle, I might have something better to do with my time." She stood. "As it is…" Leaning over the pile of books on the bed, she began to toss them to the ground, uncaring of their condition. "French grammar. French verb usage. French intonation. French dictionary."

"Do you want to try it?" He held up the finished pattern.  _It was a perfect sphere._

She shook her head, hiding her surprise by taking a seat. "My hands are clean, Lyosha."

"And mine are filthy," he said, laying the finished puzzle on the table. His hands were stained from working with the greased iron rings. His smile was barely there. "You may not believe it, but I am pleased to see you in better form, Reinette. I will come for you eventually."  _He did not say when. He did not say how long they would remain here._  He stalked to the door, not even bothering to say goodbye.  _And for the Fates knew how long, she would be alone with Rena again._ Before he could turn the handle, she found herself speaking…

"Lyosha…"

He paused, looking at her.  _"Yes?"_

"How many arrangements are there?" She nodded at the iron puzzle.

He did not hesitate. "Twenty-nine."

"Why not thirty?"

Shrugging, he turned the handle. "Because I wanted twenty-nine when I made the thing."

The door closed behind him. Relaxing, she let out a breath and then settled back to think.  _She had suspected as much_.  _By word of mouth, every vampire happened upon_ _the g_ _eneral folklore of Lucian at least once in their lifetime_ _. She did not need her memories to remember that he was cruel. He was cunning. And above all, he was ruthless. For almost a thousand years, he had been named murderer or insane_ … _but despite all the titles bestowed upon him, every tale began with the same adage. He was a_ _blacksmith. What else would the stories confirm?  
_

A moment later, Rena entered the room. The lycan-woman immediately aimed for the table, taking the puzzle up in her hands and examining the intricacy of what Lucian had done. Harsh as she was, her tawny eyes lit up, but like amber, they hardened when they fastened on her charge. Immediately on her guard, Reinette sat up carelessly, crossing her legs, allowing one of her shoes to tap listlessly in the air.

_The only way to escape would be to learn fast…from everyone. From Allegra. From Lucian. Even from Rena. She knew she was the glass that could be touched, but not broken; it did not change the fact that she had been stained. She would not easily forgive Lucian or Rena. She would not easily forgive the lycans who held her here. But she would learn from them_ _…she would devote herself to being cruel, cunning_ _…and more ruthless than her most recent of visitors_ _. French, German, English_ _…whatever he gave her, she would master it._ _And when the time came, she would have her revenge. Perhaps Lucian did not remember that_ _part of her own ominous background. B_ _loodseers always had their revenge. Even if they had to die for it._ _  
_

_Pute_ , she mouthed in French. It meant 'whore.'

Rena did not say anything.

_Rena had no opinion._


	20. The Feast of Idols

**Chapter XX: The Feast of Idols**

_The Parisian Den. Noon._

_It was their final afternoon in the den._ Auguste had insisted upon a feast of farewell, great platters of uncooked beef and lamb on the shoulders of trim serving women, boys carrying hot pitchers of blood for those lycans who required it. Like the olden days, there was a head table at the far end of the hall; Lucian was compelled to sit at its centre, Auguste and Dominique, the den's alpha and matriarch, seated to his left, and his first subordinate, Raze, on his right. Each of them had the choicest cuts of venison prepared by the chef, the blood-wine spiced and heated.

As alpha it was his duty to preside over these festivities, but with every passing minute, his seat was becoming that corner of hell reserved for outcasts. There had been speeches, toasts, laughter, cavorting…every manner of decadent behaviour reserved for celebration, some of it offensive to his eyes. They were his people…they idolised him…yet he no longer identified with them. Instead, he was mildly tipsy, staring at his glass, his finger rotating along the edge, occasionally nodding, while trying to pretend he was having a good time. Dominique held only a quarter of his attention…

"It is an  _outrage_ , Lyosha," she declared, mincing words between bones. She was a hard-looking woman, a former prostitute whose bite-wound had formally transformed her from Auguste's whore into his live-in companion. Four decades later and she had wrestled herself into the position of matriarch. "They have had the vote for six years. The very bottom of the earth…" She flicked her hand. "…but its centre? Nothing. We are the dust under their feet, the  _waste_  of their…"

"Mon ange," Auguste interjected.  _My angel,_ he had called her. "…for the sake of humility, let the master have his room. There will always be space for another outrage…"

Saved by the angel's gaze fixating furiously on Auguste, Lucian took the opportunity to vacate. He pushed his chair back and stood. A serving-boy immediately came forward, holding a pitcher out. It was the same child that had led him to the door three weeks ago. The boy had been following him like a rash.

"May I serve you, lycan-master?"

_Serve him?_

_How many blasted times was this boy going to ask that question?_

Logically, he considered the cup in his hand.  _As long as the cup was empty, he would have to decline every serving boy in the hall._ He held it out for the boy to fill, taking a gulp as soon as the top was reached.  _Hare's blood spiced with nutmeg. At least that could hold his attention._  He wiped his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, tersely thanked the boy and then proceeded into the throng to mingle. To his disgust, even though his thanks had been insincere, the boy looked like he had been touched by the hand of God.

 _Did these people not reali_ s _e his imperfection? He was no idol…he was an addict, a raging creature that people either feared or worshipped. His worst fear was one day he would wake up and reali_ s _e he was a tyrant._  In the corner of his eye, he could see Raze getting up, making his way through the crowd after him, following in case his drinking tipped from mild into the realm of full intoxication.  _Just as many eyes followed Raze as himself. They were both legends around these parts._  It would be interesting to see how far they could get without being conscripted into blessing someone's forehead.

 _So began his foray into the Parisian underworld of lycans._  His first ten steps were met by exclamations of wonder, the only exception being a shockingly sober young woman who wanted to argue the subject of emancipation. Raze came to his rescue, drawing her aside and severely nodding, massaging his chin as if the subject was actually of interest to him.  _Complete horseshit_.  _Lycan women had been emancipated since the Dark Ages; if the mortals were a step behind, that was their issue to deal with._ He started avoiding the women…though it hardly made his walk among the people any better.

The next batch of steps took him through a crowd of louts, all of them congratulating him on his existence. One of them clapped him on the back. Any other moment and they would have feared to touch him, but all claws were abandoned at a feast. This was a moment to relax, relish the merriment, stretch out the limbs.  _Even he could not begrudge them that._  He kept walking, veering towards the edges of the hall, somehow trying to get lost in a throng that knew his face better than he did. People kept speaking to him. Looking for him. Eying him. _How much longer did he have to be here?_

Feeling hunted, he began ducking into the stone alcoves, searching for the one person he actually wanted to speak to. He stumbled on drunks, lycans coupling against the wall, the same previously-sober young woman emptying her stomach on the floor. Only after he gave up did he find the one he sought. She was sitting alone in the corner, her eyes scanning the crowd for trouble-makers. Her hair was straggly, her chin smudged with red. She wore the same nondescript, brown threads she had worn for the past three weeks.  _Rena could be more of a lout than half the soldiers in this room, but she had enough mind to see rot where it was seeded. And this den was rotting from the inside._ At his nod, she raised her glass, but kept her seat. He dropped down beside her, leaning back and letting his legs stretch out a bit. Watching the same crowd that held her attention.  _Two groups of lycans pulling at each others' arms, the one group trying to force the other to give up their place in a chalk circle drawn on the floor. It was not drink-fighting, but a variety of it. Not a single one of them could stand straight._

Instinct told him to step in and break it up, but this was not his den. Any rebuke must come from Auguste; to do otherwise would undermine the man's authority.  _But_ _everyone knew Paris was in a poor state, overspending, allowing its walls to swell with numbers it could not sustain._   _One of the lower pack-leaders, Benoit had been seeking a merge for almost a decade._ _Only a matter of time before a leak sprang. Only a matter of months before_ _the issue came up at the Gathering of the Horde._

He frowned, taking a gulp from his drink. "Is it always like this?"

"Worse." She did not take her eyes off the crowds.

He had considered taking a more subtle route, but the blood-wine was affecting his abilities at conversation. He got straight to the point. He slapped his knee. "Have you considered my offer?"

She drank from her glass, speaking around its edge. "I have, Lyosha." The red spilled down her chin.

"And?"  _Why did women never answer directly? You ask them 'why', they answered 'because.'_ He touched his hand to the stone wall behind him, feeling the cold while looking at her.  _It was difficult conversing with a soldier that had once been a child in his company. Two hundred years ago, Rena's only concern had been whether the lycan-master would make her a toy to play with._

"She will not like it." Rena wiped her mouth against her shirt. It moved the stain on her chin from the right side to the left.

"I do not care what she likes," he answered.  _Why did that sound false? He professed not to care, and yet here he was bending over backwards to make damn sure the woman was comfortable. But then it would not be him having to bend over backwards soon. It would be someone else._

She set her glass down and stood. "Then you have yourself a deal, Lyosha."

He nodded. "Good…" As she slowly turned, starting to make her way back to the women's quarters, he impulsively reached out, taking her by the wrist, making her look down at him. Such a fine soldier once…and now her eyes were always yellow. Tawny-eyed Rena of the gutter. "…Rena…little Rena, you cannot continue like this."

She was swaying, but a smile found its way onto her face. "When  _you_  stop, Lyosha, so will I."

He eyed her…and then laughed softly.  _It was true. Half the time, he was more drugged up than she was._  He let go of her wrist. He was about to say more, but Auguste stepped into the alcove. The lycan leader was just as inebriated as the rest of his den.

"Good God, Lyosha, is this where you are hiding? Come, we must have a last round before dusk…" He grunted merrily and then turned, yelling loudly. "You there, boy! Blood for the lycan-master. His cup is…"

"Leave the blood, Auguste…" Rena had disappeared down the corridor. Faster than he would have liked, but there were enough rumours floating around about the lycan-master bedding his former ward. "…I have not been parched since I set foot in your home." He stood. "This has been magnificent, but you must forgive me when I say I must retire for the afternoon."

"Retire? Lyosha, it is not even dusk yet. You should…"

Smiling, he clapped the man on the back. " _Good-night_ , Auguste." Truth be told, he liked the man. Only God knew what would happen when the topic of the Parisian den came up during the Gathering of the Horde. It could be mutiny. But until that time, they would be friends.

Auguste clapped him on the back as well, and then clasped his hand.

"Farewell, Lyosha. Farewell."


	21. Snow and the Ivory Comb

**Chapter XXI: Snow and the Ivory Comb**

_Exiles' Quarter. The next morning._

_5:45 am._

She was dreaming again.

 _She stood on a flat plain of snow, the sun blinding her._  She remembered this day. _Whining and curling into a ball on the ice, using her hands to cover her eyes, peeking through her gloves. She had seen her mother's feet. Beautiful snow-white boots made of the soft down of reindeer skin, the ends curling to meet the sun. Her mother had laughed and bent over to pull at her hands, telling her to get up._  She had been mortal then. A mortal child. She remembered being afraid, wanting to stay outside of the cave.  _They were to going to meet her mentor. She did not want to go in the dark and her mother…her mother had called her name. Her mother had pulled her up by her hands and said…_

Icy water splashed in her face, her covers thrown off. Yelling, she instinctively bit out and grabbed at the end of the blanket, but Rena was too quick for her.  _So much for her name. She was back in Paris…and it was freezing._

The lycan woman grunted something in French, gesturing with the empty pitcher in her hand before bundling the confiscated blanket under one arm. Still lethargic in spite of the water dripping down her face, she tried to process what Rena had said.  _It was one thing to learn French from a book and quite another to listen and understand._

Giving up, she pulled her sheet around her shoulders and got off the bed, following the woman into the toilette. Rena had returned the pitcher to its bowl and was now haphazardly collecting the toiletries on the table. A rag for cleaning her teeth, her veil, soap, a pair of stockings hanging from a hook, and a small leather bag. Its contents were splayed out on the table…an ivory comb and a small vial of scented oil.

_Less than two days prior, Sabine had arrived at her doorstep, looking as solemn as an old maid visiting a Russian poor-house. Dressed in her beloved grey, the girl had sat with her for a full hour, speaking of books, her likes, her dislikes. All they needed was a samovar and the picture would be complete._

_Before her leave-taking, the girl had given her a small bag, remarking as she did that hair, in general, ought to be combed. When she opened the bag, she found the ivory comb and the oil. It was easy to deduce where the first item originated from. Either the girl was a thief or such combs were common in the lycan den. It was unlikely Lucian had sent the gift through Sabine, so she would have to return the item when next she saw the bastard._

"What the hell are you doing?" she growled before she could stop herself. It was the first time she had spoken to Rena in three weeks and she was strongly aware she was mimicking Lucian's manner when he spoke to idiots. But when this whore was concerned, she had only contempt.

"Collecting your things. You are leaving." Speaking slower this time, as if to stupid child, Rena bundled the rag, veil, and stockings into a ball and reached for the comb. Before the woman could touch it, Reinette abruptly lunged forward, snatching the comb from the table, holding it behind her back.

"I  _thank_  you…" Severe, she held her hand out for the rest of the toiletries. If being polite kept this woman's hands off her belongings, she would do it. She was even forcing herself to speak French. "…but I will pack for myself, if you please."

Rena shrugged. "Be quick." Rather than hand over the items, the boorish woman let them drop on the grimy floor. Before she passed through the door, she pulled the sheet from Reinette's shoulders.  _Fine. Take it_ , she thought, shivering with the extra cold.  _Only a laundry woman runs after dirty linens._

Directing silent curses at the woman's back, she kneeled to pick up the fallen items, yanking one of the dry-cloths from the wall and laying it out, dumping the stockings and tooth-rag in its centre. She added her soap-bar, wash-cloth, the vial, and the leather bag on the table.  _The comb was not really hers, but she would keep the bag._  Tying off the bundle and picking up the veil and comb separately, she returned to the other room. Rena was smacking the mattress with her palm as if searching for dust, the motion only throwing up the occasional piece of straw.  _Rude woman._ She continued to the door. Her bags were already packed, the books as well, and other than adding the toiletries and Lucian's comb to the side pocket, she had no need to search through it.  _For the past three weeks, she had made a practice of laying out her clothes in preparation for the next day._

Making certain Rena was facing the bed, she pulled off her nightgown and proceeded to dress. First the drawers, her linen chemise over that, followed by her corset. She had to lace the thing up herself. Two petticoats went on top and finally the underskirt, followed by the dress. Black as usual. Making certain her veil was in place, she fastened her pendant over the collar, allowing it to hang in front. It had become a permanent fixture in her morning routine, serving as a reminder to herself and Rena that certain items should  _not_  be touched. That certain items belonged to  _her_ , as decreed by…

The door opened.

Furious, she twisted on her heel, forgetting every word of French, brashly cursing in Russian. " _Damn it to hell_ , Lyosha, I could have been  _naked._ "

"And how would that be unusual?" Tugging his coat-sleeves, Lucian stalked into the room.

"It is common  _decency_."

"Not where I come from." He nodded to Rena, acting all the world as if this were an inspection rather than a departure. He was dressed for travelling, wearing the suit of a gentleman with his moustache and beard carefully trimmed. Eying the dust on her guard's shirt before his gaze again moved in her direction. Taking stock of her person, her belongings, neatly packed, and the room already swept.  _All of it ready._ _  
_

Seeming not to notice the glower steaming his back, he walked to the desk and began opening drawers haphazardly.  _Empty and clean._ He headed for the toilette, flinging her cabinet open with a bang, circling the small room and then walking out again. His eyes combing the floors and walls, the whole process taking under twenty seconds. And then, as if she were the one holding them up, he gestured to the door. "Shall we away or would you feel more comfortable in less attire?"

 _At least he was in the habit of being civilised about his rudeness. If that was possible._ She narrowed an eye at him. "Where are we going this time?"  _Not England,_ she thought. She did not want to go.  _How far was it to get there? They were in Paris. England could not be far on their list of stops._ Her heart was starting to beat faster. She was afraid of that place.

"Your permanent address."

"Which is?"

"That way," he muttered, gesturing around them with a lackadaisical air. "Give or take a channel. Assuming we can get past the walls, assuming the gaping hole I just walked through is still there."

"You mean the  _door_ ," she said, aware that argument would only prolong the inevitable. _Easy for him to gesture wherever he liked, but the act was life-changing for her_. Rena was already picking up her bags, but she did not want that woman's hands on anything that belonged to her. " _I_  will take those," she said firmly, moving over to stand in front of the woman.

"There is no need." He was outside the door now. He held a candle, recently acquired from the floor, the only light in the hallway. "By my request, Rena has agreed to accompany us as your caretaker. She will see to your bags."

" _What_?" She felt her mask slip.  _She had longed for this day. She had dreamed of this day, and now…_   _by his request, that illiterate whore would be coming with them._  "I was…" Horrified, she searched for the proper wording. "…not aware," she finished.

"Well I think you are aware, Reinette, that I have other functions beyond carting you across the countryside." Momentarily, he stepped back into the room. "You can hardly expect me to complete my duties and look after you at the same time."  _As if that absolved him of saddling her with the whore who had beaten her within an inch of her life. But she had to be careful._   _Vigilant. Her calm must not fold._

She swallowed her argument. "Very well, Lyosha," she replied, folding her hands in front of her, bearing the full brunt of his stare without complaint.  _She had made a promise to herself. She would learn quickly. She would lull him into thinking she served him…and if that meant the conversation was over, then so be it._

" _Good_ …" he said finally, watching her mouth in distrust, but clearly too involved in his schedule to take her to task.  _And in a manner of speaking, it was wonderful seeing the effect her calm had on him. He had been expecting a fight, even now waiting on the next word, the next bone to snap in two…_

And then, as if gaining optimism, he added, "… _excellent even_. You are adapting."  _Ironic that he would say this in the patronising tone of one lacking the patience to compromise._ He turned on his heel and made a gesture for her to move out of Rena's way. "If it is any consolation, you are in good hands. Rena is a fine soldier, and I expect you will learn to treasure her company in time."

_That and solstice._

Keeping her hands folded meekly, she managed to step out of the offending woman's way, allowing her to proceed into the corridor. _Had Lucian not been standing there, she might have clawed Rena's eyes out._  Instead, she went to the chair and picked up her coat, using the time to take a final look around the room. For three weeks, it had been her only home.  _A constant reminder of the imprisonment still to come_. She blew out the candles, feeling disinclined towards leaving now, but forcing herself to follow after Rena. She would not miss the room. Buttoning her coat up, she stepped through the door and saw for the first time the layout of Exiles' Quarter.

The halls were narrow, the walls stone-cold, the ceilings low. The only light came from Lucian's candle. On either side of a very long passageway, she could see doors…but there was no sound from the other rooms. No laughter. It was morning and everyone was fast asleep. Every other vampire who lived here:  _those who were exiled from the coven, those who needed protection, those who had chosen to fight for the lycan side. In spite of their new loyalties, none of them were trusted enough to know where a lycan den was._  Sabine had explained this all during their visit.  _It made her wonder what kind of accommodation she would receive in England. A hole in the dark, a prison with no windows?_

At Lucian's direction, she started walking down a passageway to their right. Though she had eyes for the dark, with the candle beside them, she could not see very far ahead. Only the breath in front of her face. Winter had come upon them so suddenly. The cold making her hunch into her coat as they walked to the end of the passageway. Another face coming into view by the light of the candle. The face of an angel.  _A seraph._

_Nikolai Proshkov Andreev._

_Kolya._

He was stooped against the wall, his hair hanging loose, his skin paler than it was when she saw him last. His clothing rumpled, barely fitting him as if he had lost weight in the last three weeks.  _Three weeks since she had last seen this man. This murderer who seemed to embody such warmth in his manner._   _Such calm swallowed by excitement as they approached him._

"Reinette," he breathed, catching sight of her, smiling widely as if they were comrades. His teeth were very white…beautiful teeth. Instead of taking her hand, he embraced her. An unexpected pleasure building in her chest.  _Despite her new-found knowledge of his blood-memories, she was pleased to see him._

The source of most of her meals, his blood was now more familiar to her than his face, though it had taken her the better part part of three weeks for her to realise that it was through his veins alone that the lycans were feeding her. The taste of his memories making her question his nature. Considering the possibilities in a way that only a blood-seer could and then accepting him for what he was. A dangerous puzzle.  _One_   _that she suspected even Lucian would not be able to solve._

His voice carrying on, sweeping them all up with his warmth. "…it is so  _good_  to see you. Our party together again, at last." He said this triumphantly as if they were all as close as he seemed to think they were. "You are a good man, Mr. Itzhak…a good man for letting us continue on our way…"

By the expression of warning on his face, Lucian appeared to be anything but a good man. He stared at Kolya for a measure of three seconds, and then abruptly pushed himself off the wall, turning into a low tunnel at the end of the stone corridor. The entrance difficult to detect unless one was standing directly in front of it. Rena herding them forward like cattle with a multitude of instructions to keep them in line. _Heads down and mouths shut. Follow the light. Stop when it stops. Walk when it moves._

Her surroundings making her hesitate, reminding her of a different tunnel. _A darker tunnel, filled with rats and bones in an old monastery. A small space with barely enough room for two people to walk side-by side, let alone crouch while one fed upon the other. Pitch black, save for the light twenty paces ahead._ Trying to calm the fears rattling in her chest, Reinette stepped forward, keeping her eyes on the candle.  _She was a vampire. A creature of the night. She could see in the dark and there was nothing to be afraid of. And yet she could feel it…_

Fear as the tunnel became smaller. The ceiling only an inch or so above her head. Cold air in her chest and her feet stumbling over roots and rocks—the gnawed bones reminding her why she followed so dutifully. Their guides seeming to have little difficulty with the tunnel height, as if they were used to keeping their backs curled for long periods of time. _It gave the impression of loping, as if at any moment, they could go down on all fours_ …

Kolya's voice seeming to creep up beside her like a shadow. "You know I worried so much for you, Reinette. I said to my caretakers, where is she? I  _want_  to see Reinette." And then he laughed with an ease that seemed to make the shadows melt away. "…and here we are. Is it not good?"

"Yes, it is good, Kolya." She kept her eyes on the ground and her voice low.  _She could swear one of her ribs was still broken, and she was not looking for an excuse for Rena to add another one._ Thankfully the whore was about ten paces back, so it was doubtful she'd stop their journey simply to hit her again.

"You have changed since I last saw you," he added. He seemed to have no understanding of boundaries, and without warning, he reached out, touching her veil as they walked. Seeming intrigued by the silver beneath the black. In her youth, she might have appreciated the familiarity, but she found it disturbing now. _Alarming even. _She looked old enough to be his grandmother…and for all she knew, silver locks were another reason to take someone's head_ _.__

She stumbled over a root. Keeping her pace steady thereafter, yet sharply aware that he had failed to let go of her veil.  _The edge of the black silk still nestled between his forefinger and his thumb as though at any moment, he could pull it from her head._ Unwilling to show her discomfiture, she instead watched him from the corner of her eye, considering whether anything had changed in the eyes of this murderer. Refusing to look over her shoulder, yet inexplicably longing for Rena's presence.  _Blood, that she could be looking to that whore as a chaperone._

The thought snapped the fear from her bones. "Let go of my veil," she told him with a chastising glance. Pulling the silk from his fingers and readjusting its alignment.  _He might hold danger in his blood, but she was still older than him. Perhaps in body more than mind, but the vampire would not know that._

Kolya smiled as though she had returned a favour with her severity. "An old head has many memories _,_ " he said, releasing the veil like a peace-offering. "This is a good thing."

 _Only if you plan to murder me in this blood-forsaken tunnel_ , she thought with some exasperation, shrugging past his hand. Quickening her pace and ignoring the sound of her breath moving faster. Her lost youth trying to break free from some ancient crevice that had forgotten it was made of stone.  _The warm dimple in his cheek. The fine teeth. The raven locks._   _Like staring into a window shop when one is poor._ Her eyes now seeking the far reaches of the tunnel, looking for the faint glow ahead that reminded her of hardship.  _A reason to walk faster. Some means of extricating herself from the vampire's company._

Oblivious to his own nature, Kolya had folded his hands behind his back, seeming to think they were out for a stroll, the way he conducted himself. "How long is it that you are keeping company with Mr. Itzhak?"

"Too long," she answered.  _Her nerves unable to sustain this conversation. He was too close. Too handsome. In truth, she'd moved on like a cat leaping between two fires. Her chances of burning only slightly higher if she landed squarely in the next pit._

"And how long is it that you are…"

Before he could finish his question, she turned on him. Choosing her words with care and lowering her voice so that she could barely be heard. "Kolya, we are friends, are we not?"

"Of course." His head was bowed, but his eyes were shining in the dark, as though another log had been added to the flames that burned within.  _Like a soul whose fate it was to grovel on the road to freedom, though she herself had had_ _enough of crawling for one day._

"Then I will ask a favour of you." She glanced over her shoulder, indicating Rena with her head. "Do you see that woman?" The vampire failed to nod, so she could only hope that his taste for killing extended to beasts. The words on her tongue tasting of spite. "She is a brutal creature, one whose taste for blood is only greater than her loyalty to Mr. Itzhak."

"You wish to confront her?"

"No."  _Two starved vampires trying to attack a lycan in a tunnel—it was a recipe for disaster._ She sucked air in, trying to mask her impatience with a measure of truth. "But I do not feel safe when she is near, Kolya. If you preoccupy her, I will be able to share my concerns with Mr. Itzhak."

He thumped his chest immediately. "I will do this."

"Thank you, Kolya."

He bowed, indicating the tunnel ahead them. Reaching down farther to loosen one of his shoes, the rocks giving him every excuse to pause for but a moment. Long enough to widen the space between them all. "Go," he said. "Speak to our benefactor. He will know what to do on this."

She could not bury the scoff as she began walking again.  _He was not her benefactor._ _B_ _ut if his presence could keep a whore off her back and a murderer off her neck, then she would stay close._

o… o… o

Twenty paces ahead, farther than she would have expected, she found him leading the way, the candle giving his face an ominous glow. His coat made to be buttoned, but as usual hanging open. Wax dripping on his fingers, as though he could feel neither the heat nor the cold.  _It gave her the sense that she ought to turn back…but what would be the point?_ _Every one of them was a walking nightmare, and her choices for company were limited. In any case, she had business to attend to._

Closing the gap by another margin, she aimed for his right. Towards the candle for she had no desire to walk near his hand. Her face now ancient, but her wrinkles affording her little protection from this world where vampires were spurned.  _How far had she fallen that she feared the back of a hand…a broken rib…a bruise on her face._

_Indeed, it was a tedious thing to heal._

"Lyosha," she called, three feet behind him and refusing to go any closer.  _Her heart beating as though she were less than a vampire, a creature of the night, a scourge among mortals. She had no reason to fear him._ Not the songs of his history nor the stories of his past.  _Nor the fact that he had heard her, yet continued to walk without comment,_ she thought with a sigh. " _Lyo-_ sha," she repeated, a little louder, his name starting to sound like an echo.

"What?"

__Perhaps it was foolish to raise the topic_.  _And yet she had little choice with the prospect of a strange den of lycans searching her bags. Finding the comb and beating her senseless for theft while Rena watched in silence.__

Still he did not sound excited. The prospect of her company seeming like a dull task he was performing on the road to hell. Its rank somewhere between setting himself on fire and spending the rest of eternity chained to a rock.  _At least he was no longer pretending she was dirt._

"Do you still have your ivory comb?" She kept her eyes forward, managing to step up so that she was walking almost beside him rather than behind.  _Not the most direct of questions, but she preferred to test the waters before she admitted to anything. It could be a crime for all she knew._

He looked across at her as if to say  _'dirt is dirt and_   _pretending is not necessary_ '… and then unexpectedly, he moved the candle to his other hand, making room for her to walk beside him. His eyes continually moving, as though even now looking for an ambush. Eventually allowing his attention to descend to her level.

"Yes," he said. Her fears quieted and her lungs ready to exhale until he heard the question. "No…" he corrected. His brow suddenly furrowed. This strange case of indecision finally culminating with him stopping in his tracks, towering above her, the candle held far too close to her face, while his eyes narrowed as though she had just confessed to being a death dealer. "…wait a minute… _why_?"

She took a step back. "Why what?"

"Why are you asking?"

"It was  _just_  a question."

"Reinette, it is _never_ just a question."

They eyed one another. _Were his eyes going silver or was that the reflection of the candle? Was he about to change?_ Every word seemed to dissolve from her head, leaving behind a dull sense of having to explain something without any syllables.

"Alright, fine.” First to break, she started walking again, her voice lowering to a terse whisper. "But I just want to be _clear_ about something, Lyosha. I did not steal it—I _might_ have accepted it, but there was no actual theft involved, at least from my end…"

His brow managed to both darken and lower itself at the same time. "Can you repeat that?"

 _Oh very well done,_ she thought, cursing herself with a sigh. _Starting a conversation with 'I did not steal it.' Who could possibly find that suspicious?_ She turned around and returned to where he had stopped in the tunnel. "Two days ago, I was in my quarters," she said. "I was minding my own business, and then all of a sudden, she was just… _there_."

"Who?"

"Sabine." She lowered her hand to approximately the height of a toddler. "Just standing there." She waggled her fingers, skipping the part about samovars because why on earth would he care. "In any case, she digs through her pockets, hands me a comb, and then scarpers, only I was  _sure_  I'd seen it in your bags."

"You mean, while _rooting_ through my bags," he corrected.

_Tempting to say yes._

_But hardly a pressing detail,_ she decided with a wave of the hand. She carried on, this time slower for the sake of appearing more reasonable in her conjecture.

"My _point_ , Lyoshia, is that rooting through your bags does not make me a thief, it makes me observant," she said. _She was a vampire_. _A blood-seer. She was not frightened of him. He had a sewing kit, for bloods' sake._ "It makes me capable of receiving an ivory comb and realising that a child does not want to be caught with it."

He took a step closer. "Are you calling her a thief?"

"Not in so many words," she sniffed. _Because if they were going to be honest about this, then he might as well hear it from the horse's mouth._ "If she has quick fingers, Lyosha, that is _none_ of my business." She started walking again, attempting to extricate her veil from her mouth. "It might even be an advantage among your kind. But as far as I know, she is swiping _your_ things…"

"Reinette." By his tone, she had become a painfully irksome fly in his path. Easily worthy of swatting. "Despite appearances, ivory and bone are not the same thing.” 

She nearly snorted.

"It is _not_ bone," she said. _As though one could hail from the North without being able to tell the difference between ivory and bone._ "My memories may be failing, Lyosha, but my eyes are not. The comb is ivory, at least 300 years old, with a distinct hawk carved into the handle. It is identical to the one on the ship, therefore it is _yours_. Now what do you want me to do with it?"

 _There_.

She had said her piece.  _Whether he believed her or not, this was no longer her affair._ The rest of her waiting for some direction so she could go back to being a prisoner for the rest of her life.  _Easy for him to avoid the conversation, but for her, it was just another excuse for the next set of lycans to attack her._

The entire nightmare already unfolding in her head as she ran through the worst possible scenarios:  _ _The yellow eyes of Rena on her back, eyes that said there would be no more ribs to break. Lucian delayed again and she, the one suffering the consequences. Her_ _safe-box lying broken on its side. An enormous lycan beating her on a cold floor, yelling 'thief' and 'where is the comb?'__

_Oh yes._

_She knew how these things went._ The sentiment doing little to banish the small knot of fear tying itself up in her stomach. For despite her inward assurances, his scowl was getting deeper by the minute, his expression all but confirming one of the other points she had brooded on for the past three weeks.  _Sabine who visited her in Exile's Quarter. Sabine who was doted upon by the lycan master and his former mistress._ _More to the point, only a parent would look that dire when confronted with the notion of their own flesh and blood stealing from them._

He seemed to be getting taller. It might have had something to do with the candle drawing closer to her face. "Look, can we just start over," she asked, taking a step back and almost tripping over herself.  _For the first time in her life having some sense of what it must feel like to be a governess; except her patron could turn into a raging animal by the light of the full moon._

Only his inquiry had little to do with the full moon or raging. Rather like a storm drawing itself into its full potential, he leaned forward. "How  _exactly_  did Sabine give you the comb?"

She frowned at the storm. "Why?”

" _Humour_  me."

 _By the expression of warning on his face, he was neither a good man nor about to be humoured by her answer._ It occurred to her that she could no longer hear Rena and Kolya walking. They were staying back from this particular conversation. Stopping when the light stopped. Walking when it walked.  _Perhaps she ought to have stayed with them._ And then trying to bring some semblance of calm back into their conversation, she mimed the motions, speaking in a swift voice. "I was standing by the desk. Sabine handed the comb to me, I put it on the dressing table. I used it once…and then I put it away again. Simple."

For the first time, she saw him wince. As though her words had just stung him like a whip. "You used it?"

"Of course, I used it."

There was a revulsion growing on his face as though he was slowly starting to realise something. As though she had broken the most sacred of rules. An entire lifetime of observations seeming to pass him by before he again settled on the most obvious one. " _Why_?"

 _Oh for bloods' sake._ If anyone was concerned about hygiene, it should be the vampire. Refusing to let his opinions affect her, she expelled  _all_  of the air in her lungs and started walking again. "Lyosha, can we just get past that for a moment?"

He mimicked her voice. "No, Reinette, we cannot ' _get past that.'_ "

"I only used it  _once_."

"Once is not the problem here." He had caught up to her. His voice having dropped into a vat of cynicism _._ "The problem, Reinette, is that I  _had_  a piece of ivory." He was using his hand and the candle to gesture with mathematical precision. As though he was questioning her ability to understand Latin. "It was in my circle, it was staying in my circle, and now somehow…" He snapped his fingers and then narrowed an eye at her. "… _you_  have my ivory. How is that  _even_  possible?"

"I did not  _take_  your ivory," she hissed, turning on her heel to look back at him.  _This argument was ridiculous. It was a comb for bloods' sake, not an act of war._ "I accepted it."

"You  _cannot_  accept it," he countered, as though even hearing those words was too much for him. "You  _will_  not." As though somehow that was supposed to make things more clear. "…and just so we're clear, Reinette, I have no qualms about having you cut into small pieces and then murdered if you mention this to anyone. Is that understood?" Looking thunderous, he shrugged past her, pointing the candle in warning, before resuming his walk.

She gaped, staring at his back, which was now rapidly disappearing into the dark. And then she scowled.  _Because who would care,_ she almost growled after him. She'd never seen anyone so riled by a piece of walrus tusk. He was acting as though it was the lost treasure of King Solomon.  _And h _ow on earth was the next den supposed to know she didn't steal the damned ivory if she couldn't explain where it came from?__

Against her better judgment, she followed him.  _As though cutting people into small pieces and then murdering them was something new._

"Lyosha, can I just confirm something," she asked when she caught up to him. "Are there any ramifications for theft when we reach the next den?" Despite appearances, it was much easier to talk when he was staring at her as though she had gone completely mad. "Because obviously _I_  know where it came from," she said. She followed him into the left tunnel, gesturing as they walked since clearly they were no longer talking about the elephant in the room. "…and  _you_  know where it came from…" She followed him out of the left tunnel and back towards the right. "...but how exactly is the next den going to know that?"

"Oh for bloods' sake, woman," he snapped. Staring at the two tunnels…and then finally choosing the one on the left again. He seemed to take it as a given that he might have bitten off more than he could chew by kidnapping her. The tunnel starting to angle, forcing them to walk upwards, almost to the point of climbing for a measure of seconds. "Sabine did  _not_  steal the damned ivory…and for the record," he added, using his claws to pull himself up, all the while holding the candle in the other hand. "…your people steal as much as anyone else. Only an innocent would think otherwise, and I  _doubt_  you are that."

 _Interesting._ She looked askance at him.  _This was a new development._  "You  _knew_  she had it?"

He bit the air in his exasperation. "Of  _course_ I knew." As if he had expected her to deduce such things herself.

"How?"

"I gave it to  _her_."

" _Oh_." She was at a loss now. She almost slipped on the angle of the tunnel, but found herself caught by the wrist. His hands rough, but solid. Pulling her up before she could fall. "Really…"  _Not so much a case of a child stealing from a parent as a child giving said parent's gift away to the poorhouse. Which of course begged the question…_ "…do you want it back?"

"Why on earth would I want it back?" He dropped her wrist. "That would be absurd," he said pointedly. "I gave it to her, therefore it is hers to give to whomever she chooses." Without waiting for her reply, he turned on his heel, shoulders stiff as his coat billowed in the opposite direction. Catching on the cold draft that was starting to pick up in the tunnel.

She opened her mouth to call after him…and then closed it, sticking her hands deeper in her pockets.  _The conversation clearly at an end for one of them._  Refusing to be bothered, she leaned into herself, now firmly resolved in her choice to wait for the other two. Glancing over her left shoulder and listening with some fascination as Kolya managed to twist his ankle during his uphill climb. Forcing the two of them to pause while he removed his shoe for what must have been the fiftieth time.  _The murderer and the whore soon to catch up._

Already bored with the notion of their company, she started adjusting her veil. Attempting to align it perfectly with the waistline of her dress.  _Because clearly that would be the most excitement she'd be getting if she continued to wait here for another twenty seconds._

Eventually, she crossed her arms, glancing over her right shoulder at the fading light of the candle. It was about thirty paces ahead now.  _The guiding light continuing on its dark path, its opinion of her seeming to have dropped completely into the mud, for no better reason than a worthless piece of walrus tusk._ One that his…daughter, for she had to be his daughter…had spurned.

She yawned.  _Of course it was no reason to lose sleep,_ she decided, stretching her arms in front of her. She had survived the conversation.  _No beatings. No threats beyond murder and dismemberment. In fact, for a vampire, she had come out remarkably well._ And now all she had to do was stay quiet, hold her head high and remember that lycans were dogs and their habits were unclean.

_Simple._

It was at this point that she noticed her pace was starting to quicken. Her teeth were starting to draw. And by some coincidence, her decision to wait for the others had prompted her to stalk thirty paces into the tunnel.  _The point being that in her heart, she knew she did not care what he said._   _She knew he was an animal and that his opinion was worth less than the dirt beneath her feet._

_Unfortunately, her mouth had other ideas._

"Lyosha…"

At the sound of her voice, he cursed aloud, stopping in his tracks, almost causing her to run into his back. Their entire party halting  _again_  in the tunnel, this time before a flight of steps. "Reinette, can we just  _pretend_  for a moment that you're not following me?"

 _Oh make up your mind,_ she thought, crossing her arms. "You  _told_  me to follow you."

"From a distance." He turned and indicated the space between the candle and himself. "It's like a polite form of 'fuck off.' I walk and  _inexplicably_  the distance between our feet grows. Explain to me why it's not growing."

"Perhaps because it's being squashed by the enormous chip on your shoulder," she said. "Has anyone ever told you that you are  _touchy?_ " She had completely forgotten her mantra, even in the face of a man whose eyes had gone unnervingly cold. Calm was a thing of the past. "And don't look at me like that. I can give the blood-forsaken comb back if it bothers you so much…"

He turned his back on her, starting to climb the staircase. "It's more than just the comb that's bothering me right now, Reinette."

"Well that's a relief," she said with a wave of the arms. "Because for  _some_  of us in this tunnel, it's like walking around with an excuse for a beating."

She heard him call down to her. "In that case, you  _really_  must keep it."

"I did not  _ask_  for it, Lyosha…"

He barked a laugh at the ceiling, as though he wanted the heavens to witness that particular statement. "You keep  _saying_  that, Reinette, but then one moment you're not asking for anything, and the next it's 'give me back my things.' Are you not sensing a theme here?"

"Repression," she said with a sniff.

Her declaration was met with a groan of disbelief. The act of listening to her speak on the subject seeming to require more than he was able to give. Two steps above her, he placed the candle on the staircase and took a weary seat, pressing his head into his hands, so that he could avoid seeing her for a moment. Eventually wary of where his claws were, staring at his hands and then wiping the blood onto his arm.

"I am going to pretend that you did not just say that," he decided. Taking hold of the candle again before pulling himself up. "You can keep the ivory, woman. You can throw it away. It is  _entirely_  up to you, Reinette, but I am not continuing this conversation."

She managed to exhale the entire sentence under her breath. "I don't think either of us is  _trying_  to continue the conversation, Lyosha."

"I find that  _very_  hard to believe," he said tersely, refusing to turn around and starting to put some distance between them. "Carve what you like on it, Reinette. At the end of the day, it's still just a piece of dead walrus."

 _Is it,_ she thought.

 _Thoroughly confused now. Because if it was so meaningless, then why wouldn't he just take it back?_ She started following him up the stairs, twining the veil between her fingers. Trying to avoid stepping on the bones. And then exhaling for the last time. "Lyosha?"

He didn't even bother groaning this time. "What?"

She raised her shoulders. "Well if it was  _just_  a piece of dead walrus, then you'd take it back, wouldn't you?"

For the fourth time, he stopped in his tracks…and turned…very slowly. By his expression, he was in serious danger of clawing another part of his face off. An obvious wall of derision rising up, as though he could not fathom why she was still breathing the same air as him. A battle seeming to go on within his soul, one that very promptly lost itself beneath the acid coating his exterior. And then he grimaced, finally giving voice to every monster confronted by a naked Greek youth in sandals. "Are you  _trying_  to get yourself killed?"

She shrugged, now focusing her attention on untangling her veil again. "Lyosha, believe me, I am not  _trying_  to do anything here," she said. It was like trying to placate an ill-tempered tiger. "I am simply curious."

"Yes, I can tell." His tone was telling. Suspicious. Harassed. He pointed a hand from her to himself. "The issue being that… _we,_  as in you and I, we do  _not_  talk about these things. That is not information that you need…"

"I never said I needed it," she countered.

He raised a finger. His back was clearly up. "And yet you keep talking to me," he said. "…steering me towards these conversations like somehow there isn't a chance I could kill you on a whim for it. Do you even  _remember_  who I am?"

"Only because you keep reminding me," she said.  _How pompous. As if lycan secrecy revolved around an ivory comb._ "…and 'for the record,' Lyosha, it really is just a question. Answer or not, but there's no need to look so dour upon my asking."

"It's not dour," he explained. "I'm just trying to understand who  _exactly_  you are to be asking me questions, when half my den thinks twice about asking me if I'm having a good day or not." He raised the candle to his face, emphasising the circles under his eyes. "It's 'not' by the way."

She felt her eyes roll. "You said I could speak my views. I could be bold. I could express myself."

"Expressing yourself does not involve  _me_ …"

"Well, forgive  _me_  for assuming a question was not a bleeding crime," she said.  _What had possessed her to walk after him,_  she wondered.  _He was arrogant. Touchy. A hypocrite._ Although in hindsight, she might have said too much this time.  _Just a bit._

He was circling her now as though he was starting to see something that he,  _for one_ , was not buying.  _Quite a feat on a staircase considering there was only room for one of them on each step_. He took a step closer, the look of a creature about to eat his prey. "It becomes a bleeding crime, Reinette, when you start forgetting who I am, when you start imagining that every question I answer is not simply another lock on your door… "

A pause as she stared at him.  _They both knew what he was referring to: the history of Lucian the lycan-master, the sleepless monster whose life was lived in the darkness. An area of conversation that had to be skirted around…_

_… much like his temper._

"A threat," she said pointedly.

"Not a threat, woman. Merely a reminder… " The words seemingly so careless yet tinged with a hard edge. "… to know me is to fall into this world, and I am telling you now, there  _is_  no way up from the bottom."

"You  _pompous_  bastard." She couldn't believe she was still arguing this with him.  _Yet it galled her, the means by which he sought to frighten his peers into submission_. "I'm lying in a grave just for knowing your name, and you're threatening me with dirt." Her mouth was threatening to take off again. "I know you take laudanum. I know you were a blacksmith. I  _think_  it's safe to know why you keep avoiding a piece of ivory."

"There are worse things than knowing my name, Reinette." His expression was cold, looking into her face as though he could see more than just her veil. "Some day you will look back at this and see that."

"And  _some day_ …" She repeated practically, failing to acknowledge his threat. "…you'll look back and realise I asked something trivial and you answered like some tyrannical drug-addict talking about the fall of Rome."

"You say that like it's a bad thing…" He seemed about to turn his back on her, but seemed unable to resist a last slight. "…and didn't Rome  _fall_  because of 'something trivial' or am I just hallucinating instead of remembering?" And then he touched his heart in mock sympathy. "Oh wait how rude of me. You probably have trouble remembering that far back. In fact, maybe in  _your_  world," At this, he gestured to the space around her head. "…empires  _float_ when leaders throw all their secrets to the common people."

_Common people._

_The day she heard a lycan use such a term._

"How would you know  _anything_ about my world," she snapped back, still in a whisper, suddenly on the verge of Changing. "You barely even  _know_  me. You wake me up… _purchase me_. And then  _you_ …" She struggled for the words now, trying somehow to get through to him.  _They both knew it had nothing to do with the question any more. It was the principle of the matter._  "…you plan to  _use_ me for the rest of my natural life, poisoning me for answers, only to begrudge me one question… "

"Yes, that is  _exactly_  the point, Reinette…" There was a wall of silver over his eyes, and from where she stood, the shadows behind him were tinged with light. "I bargained for those answers… " He started walking again. "…I own them, so unless you are willing to make another deal, personal questions, even trivial ones, are off limits." And with that, he raised two fingers at her as though it meant something and started walking again.

_A clear dismissal of one who was no longer worth his time._

With her eyes on his back and no one to see, Reinette abruptly kicked a rock against the side of the tunnel.  _Not worth his time_ , she thought. Crouching down for a moment to find the rock and inexplicably deciding to put it in her pocket.  _Another token to remind her of why she was still planning to murder him._  The others stretching their legs, catching up to her as she fell back to where Kolya and Rena were. The moving candle once again leading them through the darkness.  _Taking them to hell as far as she was concerned_.

_Bastard._

_o…o…o_

_Fifteen minutes later._

When they came to the end of the staircase and then the tunnel, they were blindfolded again. Her last sight of Kolya filled with sorrow, for she was starting to wonder if he had not been kinder in the past few weeks than she had been towards him.  _Too late for she had only time enough to say 'farewell' to him._ The world descending into a true pitch, and the rest of her senses leaping forward to compensate. She felt a larger hand take hold of her arm.  _Raze_. She heard water, the sound of boats knocking against one another. The laughter of a child playing along the edge.  _Sabine_.  _Grey-eyed girl wandering about close to the lycan-master. She had to be his._  As for Lucian… only silence.

It was Raze that brought her to the box, picking her up and carefully laying her inside as if she were glass. The blindfold coming off and the dark lycan's staring down at her. Snow on his shoulders. Behind, she could see the ceiling of a warehouse above them, the windows blackened and nothing more to tell her where they were. With care, he handed her a single bottle of blood and for once…it was his gravelly voice that gave her a measure of comfort.

"We are leaving Paris now," Raze said firmly. "Sleep. We will be with you the entire time. You will wake in eight hours." The lid came down, followed by the sound of the nails coming into place. She breathed a bit faster, staring into the darkness, again feeling constrained in the small space.  _She could do this. They would be out in eight hours._

All she needed to do was sleep and the time would pass quickly. It was daylight outside, she was supposed to be sleeping anyway…but instead she opened the bottle.  _Her stomach reminding her that she was starving_. She sniffed.  _And thank the night, they had given her blood-wine this time._ Shrugging her coat off, she downed the bottle, uncaring of the red seeping down her chin.

The blood doing its work in under an hour, drowning her sorrows, making her forget the fears threatening to plague her dreams. Asleep, she lay upon sackcloth, her hand limp beside the empty bottle. Soothed by the wine, but so careless of her surroundings that she would not have noticed if the bottle had broken under her care.

 _She did not feel as the boxes were stacked upon the carriage. She did not hear the horses drawing them across the countryside to a small wharf near Calais. Last of all, she was not aware that her box was now enroute to England via a small ship chartered by one Mr. Alexander Kerr, a particularly wealthy constituent of London. Mr. Kerr had been abroad for the past three months and it was with great anticipation that his household staff awaited him. Little did they know that Mr. Kerr was returning_ …

… _with guests._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> samovar - a type of metal urn used in Russian tea-making
> 
> 'Did the Roman Empire fall because of triviality' - referring to the 'dole' of the Roman Empire, that is, the official distribution of free grain and entertainment to the poorer classes, considered one of the potential reasons for the fall of the empire.


	22. Hunger Without End

**Chapter XXII: Hunger Without End**

_Just off the coast of Dover, England. 3:21 pm_

She opened her eyes. Darkness. She was still in the box, but there were sounds around her, rocking beneath her. The movement of a ship. Someone was walking on wooden boards, circling the box, tapping what sounded like paper against a palm. She held her breath, listening, her first instinct regrettably that of fear.  _The last time she had woken in one of these boxes, the cover had been wrenched off, followed by Rena dragging her from its interior._  She looked down, spying the empty bottle where it had rolled into the corner. The effects were not as strong as  _Bikavér_ , but she still had a faint headache. Her knees were getting sore. The walls of the box were too close. Suppressing the fear, she spoke out calmly…

"Is that you, Lyosha?"

Her prowler said nothing, but from the right, she heard a muffled laugh, the babble of water that was Sabine. She breathed, some of her fears melting away.  _The girl might be precocious, but the gift of the comb, however illicit, had more or less softened her heart towards her._ From inside, she knocked against the side of the safe-box, the black cloth muffling the sound of the wood. "Sabine," she murmured cordially, using the familiar form of Russian address. "…if you please, I am trying to sleep. Ask Lyosha to stop being so loud." The girl must have been sitting on the same level, for she heard the laughter multiply, the sound of a seated girl rolling back as if the humour were too much for her. Through the wood, she heard Sabine stand, the rustle of cloth followed by the soft knock of two feet landing upon her box. Reinette looked up. The girl was standing directly above her, facing what certainly must be Lucian.  _Had he forgiven her yet for arguing with him in the tunnel?_

"Lyosha," the girl declared boldly in Russian. "…you are too loud. Be quiet."

"You are too short. Grow a little." Hearing the rolling sarcasm of Lucian, she felt her lips stretch further by a very small margin.  _There he was._   _Sarcastic bastard._   _Until he answered, she had mildly considered that it might be Raze on the other side, in which case, she was antagoni_ s _ing a lycan over two times her size._

Sabine's voice piped up again. "Can she come out?"

"Not yet."

She could almost see the girl, like a silent predator, idling from one side of the box to the other, her feet barely making a sound despite the hollow space beneath her. "Can she come out  _now_?" She was very precocious.

"I am still thinking on it," he said pointedly.  _As if he could think about thinking all night and if he wanted to, he'd leave her in that box for the entire period._ The circling did not stop, but she heard the paper in his hand crumple, the pages falling onto the floor. Sabine stayed where she was.

"I will be quiet." The girl was bargaining.

He said nothing.

Leaning back, Reinette smiled, waiting for the inevitable, confident now that Sabine had spoken for her.  _It would not be long before the box opened._   _As much as it was possible, Sabine had him wrapped around her little finger. Or claw._ The two feet leaped off the box and without so much as a nail coming loose, the cover came off.  _Trust Lucian to continue thinking on it after having taken out the nails already._

 _There_ …

… _she was out._

Blinking from the sudden light, she shaded her eyes, feeling the brightness of a lamp upon her face.  _A lamp? There was no lamp._  The light came from a miniature chandelier fashioned out of glass, the three candles at its centre seeming to grow out of a pool of lilies. An ornate ceiling covered in white panelling. She frowned at the ceiling.  _Where were they?_ After so many hours of sitting, it was a minute before she could get to her knees, slow at first and then stumbling as she saw the style of room they were situated in. Everything came shakily into focus. _By no means could this ship compare to the one they had first embarked on._

Beneath the box she stood in, there was a thick carpet, the colours red, gold, and black, like a line of flame-trees woven from some distant land beyond the borders of Europe. There was gilding everywhere. Dark wooden tables, chests, a king-sized four-poster bed large enough to be a ship in itself. Every window had shutters and drapes thicker than the carpet. On one of the larger tables, in front of what was clearly a dining chair, there were two glasses of blood. A plate of raw meat that had been barely picked at, the knife and fork leaving a red smear on the red cloth. She looked down. Pages on the floor, the writing imperceptible from this distance. On the other side of the room, Lucian was slouching in a chair, the fire-grate at his back.  _A firegrate…on a ship._ He was chewing on his pen, eying her. Gauging her reaction it would seem.

Under his scrutiny, she realised her veil was missing, scrunched up in another corner of the box. Quickly, she leaned down, snatching it up. There seemed no sense in putting it on, but she returned it to one of the side-pockets of her dress. She would have to climb out of the box. It would be cumbersome, so half in shock, half stalling for time, she turned instead, looking up and down, not quite believing what she was seeing. She had known he dressed expensively sometimes, but she had not expected this.  _It was as bad as the coven…as rich as the coven. How many years had he spent in hiding, storing his worldly goods? How could a lycan have so much to his name? Was this a front?_

"You are…" She would have to breathe in order to finish the sentence. There was gold on the siding of the plate. Golden forks and knives. She was stumbling on the word. "You are…"

" _Rich_ ," he said. He had the look of a man no longer interested in his own wealth. "…I assume that was where you were going with that statement?" He put the pen on a side-table.

"But you are…"

" _Affluent, well-off…well-to-do…"_

"But how did you…"

"Another time. Ten years from now. Sabine, find her a chair." He was being very brusque again. While he spoke, he started eying his hand and to her shock, one of his fingers moved up to his mouth. Lucian, the great lycan-master, was unceremoniously biting one of his nails, an expression of great boredom on his face. Such a mundane habit, it served to ground her in the airy gilding that was this room. Sore, she climbed out of the box, holding the skirt of her dress gingerly. It caught on the siding and she almost fell, but Sabine reached out, steadying her with a hand. She nodded. "Thank you."

"Yes. Thank you, Sabine," Lucian muttered, sitting cross-legged on the chair now. He was in his shirt-sleeves, his coat on the floor behind him. _His words had been very insincere. No wonder the girl was running around trying to make up for his rudeness._ But seeming to take his words to heart, the girl curtsied solemnly and walked to the door. She opened and closed it almost silently behind her, leaving them alone.

_Alone._

_Why did that feel strange? First, a beating, now a bed-chamber. What was going on?_ She had never been prudish, but it felt…wrong…standing alone with him in his bed-chamber with his shirt open. She blinked, focusing on the chair, opening her mouth to dispel some of her unease. _At least she was not naked this time._

"We are on our way to…" She had to get used to it. She sat. "…England?"

He looked up from his nail. "England. Yes…" There was a pause, and then using the armrest to propel himself off his chair, he crossed the room, moving to stand in front of her. Studying her again. Without a word, he walked to the dinner table and picked up one of the glasses. He held it out. "Three drops, Reinette. I think it is time we began fulfilling the terms of our deal."

 _No…she had hoped they would…that they would begin once the journey was over. A single drop brought nausea. Two brought the blood back up. Three and she'd be bedridden._ She knew her face was falling. "Very well." She held out her hand for the glass and he gave it to her, their fingers touching for a moment. His skin was still hot from being so near to the grate. "May I ask whose blood it is?"

"I will not answer."

She nodded. At least he was honest. Resigned, she touched her finger to the blood and let the first drop fall on her tongue. The sharp taste, the whisper of secrets at her back.  _The second drop._ She was swaying, moving towards the ground.  _The third drop._  In the faintest corner, she saw Lucian stepping forward, rescuing the glass from her hand before she fell from the chair.  _All for the vision. All he cared for was the vision._ Blackness took her as the words tumbled out. Words she could not stop.

" _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm. Drink, she will not, for light bears the darkness, the cold inside, the creature that is not among us. Eat, she will, for her crime. Hunger without end. Grief without…"_

She gasped, forcing the last word out before the end. "… _fury."_ Coughing, she folded over her knees, her stomach caught in a spasm, the room sweeping forward out of the black. It felt like her insides were made out of glass. Broken glass. For a full minute, she stayed where she was, breathing…unable to stand. Lucian had not moved. He was… He was beside her. She still could not stand, but he raised her up, securing her arm around his neck, picking her up as if she were fragile, the incarnate wine glass he had poisoned her with. She could not speak yet.  _Nausea. Such pain in her side._

Carrying her across the room, he laid her out on the bed, unfolding one of the blankets from the foot, covering her with the warmth. Despite his rough handling of the blanket, he was careful, avoiding touching her side, even drawing one of the pillows closer to her front, so she could grip it as another spasm took her.  _Kindness and cruelty in the same creature. He poisoned her and then sought to ease her pain. It did not make the situation better._ Leaving her there, he returned to his chair, looking into the fire, seeming to brood on her vision. Writhing on the bed, the question remained in her mind.  _Whose blood had that been that it warranted a vision worth three drops? Like the ivory comb, it was not difficult to deduce its source._

_Sabine._

_It had to be hers. The girl had been clothed in grey, covered from head to toe. There could easily have been a scar already healing on her arm, a small cut where Lucian had bled her…_

… _and as always, she remembered the words._

_Grief. Hunger. …and a crime. What horrors were in store for that child?_

"Lyosha," she managed weakly. Using her elbows, she wrestled herself up against the side of the pillow. Goosedown. It was almost worth the pain of having given a vision of three drops that she could now lie in this cloud of a bed. But when he looked up, his eyes were as cold as the night he almost Changed in that carriage.  _He had not liked the vision. No one ever liked the vision._   _They only ever wanted to hear good things._  She would lose consciousness soon…but she had to…say something.  _Why she thought to comfort this creature, she did not know…but Sabine did not deserve to be branded with a vision that would taint his view of her._

"They do not always come true," she whispered. He needed to know…he needed to remember. "…they are only…" Her voice was fading. "…prospects." Again the black took her.

_This time, for sleep…_

_She would have to sleep for a while._

_An entire day._


	23. The Smell of Forbidden Fruit

**Chapter XXIII: The Smell of Forbidden Fruit  
**

_London, England. 4:30 pm_

It was snowing when they arrived in the city. Daylight outside, but muggy enough that drapes were enough to keep light from entering their carriage. Dressed as a lower-class deck-hand, Raze had taken off, separating himself from their party. As usual, he would make his own way to the den. Kolya had been left behind on the corner of Bishopsgate and Hanbury Street. Two lycans would be responsible for transporting both the box and his belongings to the Exiles' Quarter, located in Whitechapel. God-willing, they would never see him again, though no doubt, he would have enjoyed making his farewells to Reinette.

_By the terms of the deal with Vasili Andreev, Nikolai Proshkov Andreev had exactly half a year from the date of his arrival in London to get his affairs in order. Someone would note the date in the exile's log. After that time, the vampire would be thrown out on the street and it would be up to him to find his way in the world. As was the case with most exiles, it became a question of whether he wanted to lurk unprotected in the city or find his way on to the Americas. There was an enormous trade in that, headed by one of the more tolerated exiles living near Tilbury._

Across from his seat, Rena looked uncomfortable, compelled to dress the part of a nursemaid, the starched collar causing her neck to chafe, her hand reaching up every minute to soothe it. Beside him, Sabine was drumming her feet against the floor, moving about the carriage, wanting to look outside. She had never seen London before, but he had been adamant. The sun was all but invisible, but he was in no mood to sweep ashes from the floor. After her exertions earlier that afternoon, Reinette was still fast asleep, looking pale as a ghost, her head resting on Rena's lap.  _Had she been awake, that might have been a problem. It had been troublesome enough getting her onto the carriage. Several blankets and the use of a parasol had protected her from the waning sun for the ten seconds it had taken to complete the transfer._

Itching to move himself, he was counting the turns, trying to gauge how much longer before they arrived home. The stately home of Mr. Alexander Kerr was just outside the greater city, close enough to allow for daytrips, yet large enough to warrant a stable. Rarely seen in public, Mr. Kerr had not been home for these past three months, double the time it took to complete an inspection of twelve lycan outposts.  _In truth, Mr. Kerr could have returned in one month, but he had chosen instead to spend two extra months hiding in hotels, comfortable with the notion that every night on the mainland was another night when he did not have to discuss ballet with Jacqueline. He had been thinking about going south when Goar sent him word of some book of unspeakable value in Tanis' possession._   _Unspeakable value, indeed. It was supposed to be a three-day detour ending with a book, but he had ended up with a woman instead. A troublesome one at that._

He eyed the pendant around her neck, considering whether to check it for the time. He was itching to look at his watch, but the pieces were still in his left trouser-pocket. In a few days, he would visit the watchmaker's shop and have the thing rebuilt from scratch. The most important thing was getting some laudanum in his system; he had run out exactly four hours ago. He grossly regretted having crushed his emergency supply on the wall of that cell in Paris.  _Surely it could not be long…they had been in this carriage for almost an hour._ To his relief, the sound of muddy streets soon enough turned into cobblestones leading up to a house. The carriage stopped briefly for the squeak of an iron gate, before proceeding onto grounds that were more gravel than cobblestone. Finally they halted, Sabine almost falling off her seat in her excitement. _They were home._  Drawing the drapes by a crack, he saw only shadows. They were in the stable-house. _Excellent. They had followed his instructions to a tee._

The coachman came round the side, opening the door and bowing. He was the only mortal in the room, but he showed no fear. There was a slew of lycan stable-hands behind him, half of them too young to work. Poverty was rampant in the city, and any lycan would bend over backwards to get a position in the country, even under a mortal. None of them spoke or looked up, the custom being for most English servants to pretend they were made of air. In their first years of service, he had made an effort to speak to them, but they seemed to take it as an affront to their station. _It was the coachman, Henry Fulligan, who had instilled that in them._   _Seeing it as a new form of slavery_ _, Lucian had been disgusted, until one evening, a pressured footman had explained it as a matter of pride. They were proud of their work and if they could set up a household for him, one as grand as any other house, they wanted to serve it like the other houses, all genteel-like. Those had been the footman's exact words. Since then, he had let them go about their business as they wanted._ He stepped from the carriage, smelling the familiar scent of horses and iron.

"Good evening, Henry. How is our lady settling in?"

Henry looked up, knuckling his wrinkled forehead, a hesitant grin on his face. "'Evening, sir. Welcome back, sir. She's a right kicker, but she'll find her place." He was looking with appreciation at a familiar-looking black horse trapped in one of the stalls. Sixteen hands high with a white patch on her shoulder. Goar had sent her on ahead, a gift for the lycan-master who had a known penchant for unruly animals.

"Excellent."

Behind him, Sabine suddenly leaped out of the carriage, making a beeline for the horses. He caught her by the arm, muttering ' _patience'_ , keeping her firmly back. At the appearance of the young girl, Henry lowered his eyes, stepping back now that his master's attention was elsewhere.  _The entire household knew there would be a female ward arriving when the master returned. She was considered to be upper-class and as a result would suffer the same deferential treatment as Lucian. That did not mean she would not learn to respect the household as many children often forgot to do._

"Sabine," Lucian said in German, looking down at the top of her head. "…this is Mr. Fulligan. He is the lord of these stables and if you are good, in a few days, he will let you ride one of those horses." Having already decided she must have some means of occupying her day, he directed her attention to one of the thoroughbreds across from them. An older creature with enough spunk to keep the child entertained.

She beamed, staring at the horse with eagerness, her eyes already betraying her as a lycan. "Oh, yes. I want to…" Making a strong effort, she switched to English. "…ride very,  _very_ much. Mr. Kerr." She had already been instructed of his pseudonym as well as the politeness that would be expected of her in front of household staff. Turning to Henry, she nodded her head politely as Allegra had taught her to do, using the expression she had learned during their journey. Her accent was very German. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Fulligan."

Henry smiled in return, ducking his head again. "Miss."

Pleased at the respect she had shown, Lucian let go of her arm, waiting for the expected dash towards the horse. But she stayed perfectly still, the silver orbs looking innocently up at him, as if the farthest thing from her mind was movement. He frowned at that.  _Sometimes girls were far too quick to suit him._   _Particularly when he had to factor in how they would improve with age._  He turned around, putting a hand into the carriage to help Rena out, but as he made the motion, he almost collided with one of the stable-hands.  _It was the price of being wealthy. Every day became a constant battle to complete manual labour before his staff could. Once he entered the house, it would be outright war._  Ignoring the stable-hand, Rena took his hand and stepped down, balancing Reinette in her arms, still keeping the woman covered in blankets. It was practically dusk outside, the windows of the stable covered, but it was best to get her inside where there was no chance of a burn. The same stable-hand made an attempt to take Reinette from her arms, but Rena shook her head.  _She had strength enough for two._

Lucian was walking on ahead, calling his orders back to the coachman. "Take care of the bags, Henry. You will meet Rena on your own time, as well as our other guest." He aimed for the narrow door on the left, Sabine following obediently now that she had been assured of the time she could spend exploring this stable. The passageway was dark leading directly into the house, making it simple for them to bypass the courtyard. Due to the narrowness of the passage, Rena walked sideways, holding Reinette's head back from the wall, her boots colliding with the wall only at turns. There was not a servant to be found, all of them informed to keep themselves back. After a short walk, they ended in the kitchen, the place bustling with steam and hot pots, rich with smells but empty of life, save for Mrs. Fulligan.

"Good evening, Mrs. Fulligan."

Mrs. Fulligan was far less hesitant than her husband. Like Henry, she was used to dealing with Lucian in all his states. "Good evening, sir." She was a short, older woman, dressed cleanly as the housekeeper must. "If I may say so, it is good to see you, sir." Not a single hair was out of place, yet she seemed out of breath as if she had run from one end of the house to the other.

"You as well, Mrs. Fulligan."  _By all the poppies of England, he meant it. Three months away from home and he could finally settle down for a spell, knowing there would be a hot bath waiting for him every evening._ He stepped aside, allowing Rena to come through with Reinette. Rather than explain the presence of a veiled, unconscious woman, he moved onto a far more precarious subject. "And how is our lady?"  _He did not mean the horse this time._

"Oh…" Mrs. Fulligan frowned in disapproval, folding her hands. She was the type of woman who never wanted to give an opinion, yet could not help wearing it openly on her face. Particularly on the subject of Jacqueline. "Oh, the lady is fine, sir."  _In other words, the lady was not fine._

"No trouble, I hope?"

"Oh no, sir." Her brow was knitting itself into a sign that said  _Yes, sir, and if you had asked my opinion about being left with her for three months, I would have given my notice._

He smiled. "Out with it, Bess." He knew exactly what kind of effect his smile had on her.  _It was a little known fact, but at one time, he had known Elizabeth Fulligan better than her husband did. She had started as a scullery maid in his household almost forty years ago in Germany._ _She would kill him if he let a word slip in front of her household staff, but they were practically by themselves. For old times' sake, she could live a little.  
_

"Oh, it is not my place to say, sir…" She looked flustered. There was some hesitation as if she could not match the words in her head with the words she ought to say. "…but the lady has her needs. I am sure that…" She nodded to herself, finally coming up with the same explanation Henry often used when talking about a horse that was unpleasant to deal with. "…she will find her place. Begging your pardon, sir, but it is none of my business."

"Very good, Mrs. Fulligan. Very good." Still smiling, he put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her forward to meet Rena. "This is Rena. Both she and her charge will require rooms in the East Wing. Our other guest is missing, but she will turn up once she realises there is no dinner to be found in the corridors. You have my permission to discipline her as you will, but I would prefer you do it in English…she will be learning it over the next year."

"Of course, sir. I will inform the household." Having steadied herself in reality again, Mrs. Fulligan put a hand out to direct Rena down one of the windowless corridors. "This way, young miss." At least two hundred years older than the housekeeper, Rena looked nonplussed to be called 'young miss,' but she went.

_There…_

_…home again._

Left on his own, Lucian breathed for a moment, getting his scent right. He could smell food simmering in one of the pots, meat being cooked in the oven. There was tableware being polished on one of the sidetables, a number of glasses set out. Iced blood-wine cooling in a bucket. They were preparing for this evening's dinner, and the longer he stood in this kitchen, the more haggard the cook would be.  _The cook. Not the chef. They were in England again…not France. His scent needed to be confident…in control_.  _Three weeks he had told Jacqueline. Three weeks._ _It was a longshot, but he might get to his bath before he was forced to explain himself._ While Mrs. Fulligan had taken Rena and Reinette down the servant's windowless passageway, his position as master meant going the long way. He went to the left, ducking somewhat lower than usual. The doorways were often short in these homes, particularly in the servant areas.

In the foyer, he saw a line of household staff, all of them waiting on his approval before he sought out his quarters.  _Let it never be implied that Mrs. Fulligan was not the most diligent of housekeepers._ The maids curtsied, the footmen bowing their heads. Lycans, all of them. He could not remember a single one of their names, but he nodded in passing, respectfully acknowledging their presence in his household one-by-one.  _Almost four hundred years ago now, he had drawn a line at having servants…but as more lycans required employment, even servitude found its place in lycan society. As long as they were well-treated and wanted their position, he could live with it._ Having reached the end of the line, the butler dismissed them and he was free to escape upstairs. It was his favourite part of the household. The railing oak, the floors marble, the windows wide and open.  _The one thing he stipulated for every house that he ever owned in the past six hundred years…windows. Windows everywhere._

Reaching the top of the staircase, he walked down the familiar path, the plush carpet under his feet, the line of portraits on either side of the hall. A hundred years ago, this house had belonged to an Englishman named Sir Robert Kerr. Having disappeared for a stretch of forty years, Sir Robert died of cholera overseas, just off the coast of Morocco. He left all his belongings to his son, Gregory, sometimes called Gregoire or Goar by his closest friends. Alas, tragedy struck yet again, and twenty years on, Gregory 'Goar' Kerr was involved in a freak accident involving a train and a carriage.  _Such a pity to have died so young, but at least he had an heir. It was a great comfort to society when Gregory Kerr's son appeared out of Germany another twenty years or so later. 'Of course, this man is a Kerr,' they whispered. 'One need only look at the portraits to see Mr. Alexander is the spitting image of his grandfather…and such manners, they whispered. Such a gentleman._

_The lycan version of the tale was much shorter. The house was transferred from himself to Goar and back to himself again. Short and simple.  
_

Lucian kicked the doors to his suite open. The master bedroom was spotless, every drawer in place, every mahogany table polished with a fire already biting in the grate. His four-poster bed looked as if it had been made, unmade, remade and then ironed, the drapes hanging just so. His bags were already being unpacked by Langley, his manservant.  _Langley's mother had been a friend, but he swore, if the boy turned sideways, he could cut something. On the whole, bearable as a manservant, but galling the way he glanced at Raze when certain requests were made. As if he had to check with the real mistress of the house before he could bring the lycan-master that fourth brandy of the evening._

"Good evening, Langley."

"Lycan-master, I…I mean, good evening, sir. Welcome back, sir." He swallowed, almost dropping the shirt he was holding. "Your bath is…" He looked uncomfortable. "…it…well, it…is waiting."

"But you misplaced the bath-salts and you  _forgot_ the water…" Used to Langley's incompetence, Lucian pulled off his shirt-collar, the coat falling at his feet. "Whatever the hell it is, boy,  _speak_. You will not be murdered."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm sorry. But she…"

" _She?"_

"It's just that she…" He swallowed. "…she's already in it. I tried to stop her, sir, but she pushed me over. She was already undressing. I didn't know what to do." His voice had gone up by an octave.  _Langley was just under sixteen years old. He was born a lycan and he would die a virgin if he did not stop, drop, and learn what was underneath all that clothing women swore by._

"You did nothing wrong, Langley." Pulling off his waist-coat, he chucked it across the room. "Leave the bags, I will deal with them myself…" He pulled the remains of his watch out, setting the pieces carefully on the dresser. "…what time is dinner?"

"Just after 6:30, sir. I mean, seven. I'm supposed to help you dress for dinner. Mrs. Fulligan said that…"

"That will be all, Langley."

"But sir, Mrs. Fulligan said that…"

" _Out!"_

The boy footed it out of the room. More aware of his surroundings now, Lucian took a cautious sniff.  _Perfume_. She had flounced right through here.  _A different scent from usual or he might have been on the uptake a bit sooner._  Stalling for time, he took a seat on the bed and pulled off his boots. There was a hint of mud on the carpet. Mrs. Fulligan would kill him for that. He stood, walking slowly, but purposefully to the door.  _The last time he had seen Jacqueline, she had thrown a plate at his head. Then a glass. Then a fork. Out of everything, the only piece of dinnerware he had seen fit to catch was the knife._

Feeling uneasy, he pushed open the door to his bathing room. There was fresh steam coming out of the water, the bath-salts in place, his towel piping hot, hanging above the radiator on the window. Langley's nemesis was reclining in the tub, gracefully running a white sponge from her thigh to the tip of her toes. Angling her leg, she drew the sponge back, making it disappear into exotic places beneath the water. Like all his conquests, she was a vision to the eye, though by far the youngest conquest he had ever attained. Short flaxen curls, brown-eyes verging on black, and a bosom made out of pure gold. She was just short of her twentieth birthday and may he  _burn_ for ever having thought he could break off their relationship with a word. As only a temptress could, she stood, dripping wet, and stepped out of the bathtub, walking past him into the bedroom. She smelled like forbidden fruit. Without a word, he followed.

_Dinner would have to wait._


	24. Rules and Regulations

**Chapter XXIV: Rules and Regulations**

_The London Household. 6:10 pm_

Rena followed the bustling housekeeper down the narrow hall. Reinette, she held close, taking pains to ensure the vampire would not be bruised upon waking. Like a bird in her palm, one whose neck could be snapped or shielded. She would watch over, feed, and protect her. If times changed and Lucian asked her to murder her in cold blood, she would do that as well.  _Like or dislike had nothing to do with it. Not when everything was a task._

Ahead of her, Mrs. Fulligan began to climb a set of narrow stairs, speaking to her in English. Mildly out of breath, the kind of voice that would take no nonsense from anyone but a superior.  _Like Rena with her charge, Mrs. Fulligan had a task, and she took to it with a level-headedness that belied her status as a mortal in a lycan household. She spoke of house-rules, den-rules, dinner-bells. It did not seem to matter whether they stood in the upper reaches of a British household or the lower levels of the den._ At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Fulligan unlocked a wooden door and ushered their small party into a hallway, dark as the one downstairs, a door at either end. Left with a choice, Rena looked from one to the other, but said nothing, assuming the housekeeper would continue to lead as she had been doing. She made no mention of Reinette's condition, but the housekeeper seemed to take it in stride.

"If you will wait a moment _,_ miss, _"_ Mrs. Fulligan said, holding a wrinkled hand up before walking down the hall and unlocking the right door. She passed through and shut it very quickly behind her, cutting off the last rays of sun. Even had she been slow, the door was too far back for it to do her charge any harm.

Left behind, Rena waited, listening through walls, hearing rustling rather than footsteps, fabric being drawn and a match being lit. Without the heavy footsteps of Mrs. Fulligan, she could pinpoint the lighter ones of Sabine crawling up the stairs, following them. She could smell dust. Damp. The muggy wool wrapped around Reinette's shoulders.  _Since leaving the ship, the vampire had not stirred, her limbs hanging loose from her frame. Lucian had said she would be awake by tomorrow afternoon. She would not speculate over why he had drugged her nor why she lay in his bed when they disembarked. She would do her task and ask no questions._

Through the wall, Mrs. Fulligan called for them to come. "It is alright, dear," she said.  _Dear. As if she were a maid in the governor's household._ Rather than turn the handle herself, Rena persistently waited where she was, watching the handle turn, making certain it was the rays of a candle rather than the sun that fell on the floor. Only then, holding Reinette closer, did she proceed through the door, padding into what seemed a large drawing room, velvet-lined drapes covering a line of three windows from floor to ceiling. The fireplace was cold. Dust on everything. Books, tables, chairs, the abandoned piano-forte by the farthest window. Squinting, she could see an overturned brandy-glass lying on its cover, the blood from the vessel having been poured and long-since hardened over the instrument's keys; as if both keys and glass had been sitting there for a decade, alone in silence. Mrs. Fulligan was waiting ahead, holding a handkerchief to her mouth, the candle in her other hand. Coughing, she beckoned with the handkerchief, leading them through the silent room, their footsteps muffled by the remnants of a thick carpet burrowed by mice.

"This way…" The housekeeper pushed against a set of panelled doors at the room's end, the dust continuing through two more rooms of abandoned elegance. Their destination was a narrow door tucked at the end of a hallway, its plain lack of panelling unexpected after the French-inspired elegance of before. Removing a large iron key from the ring at her belt, Mrs. Fulligan turned the key in the lock and pushed. When the plain door did not open, she pushed again, using her hips this time. On the second attempt, the door swung open, its rusty hinges emitting a large creak that did little to alleviate any concerns about what Lucian had meant by the "east wing." He may as well have said "the forgotten hole in the back-end of nowhere." _In spite of this, she had no concerns. She did not care why this place was deserted. She would not ask why a vampire prisoner was housed in the upper household rather than the exiles' quarter. She would not venture a guess over_ _what separated Reinette from other prisoners._   _Everything was a task, and it was her mandate not to have opinions._

She stepped into the room, looking around. Large with a high-ceiling, it had not been used for as long as that brandy-glass had been sitting on the pianoforte. No footprints in the dust, but rather, shallow dents in the floor, a single, wretched scrape along the wall as if someone had dragged their claw back and forth upon the same line. What little furniture there was passed easily for firewood: a smashed chair and cabinet sitting bereft of company. A bed-frame lacking sheets, blankets, pillows, and even a mattress. The only window, directly across from them, had been boarded up, and the room's two adjoining doors were in banged-up shape. Most of their panelling had been taken off, the sharpness of nails occasionally poking through. One door was half-open, leading to a toilette in need of cleaning. The other was closed, seeming to be a closet or another room. She did not put Reinette down. As far as she could see, the only thing positive about this room was the amount of space at their disposal.

_A space into which Sabine's voice promptly intruded._

"This room is not satisfactory," Sabine said in German. She sounded very aloof, her formality taking over now that they had left the stables. She had followed them silently into the room, observing its contents with vast disapproval on her face, if not in her tone of voice.

"No, it is  _not_ ," Mrs. Fulligan agreed in English, keeping to the letter of Lucian's instructions.  _Little, including German language, seemed to phase this housekeeper of lycans._  She turned around, holding the candle down, shedding light on the girl's face. "…but it is the best we can do under such short notice, miss. We were not told to expect one of…" Wary of sleeping ears, she struggled for a moment, searching for the polite term for  _vampire_. "…her kind, but we are happy to serve the master in any way he wishes. Mr. Kerr has indicated the east wing, and until he tells me otherwise, this is the only available room that is boarded." She seemed to have an inane sense of timing. "…now it is twenty past six, miss. You must be hungry. As soon as we are done here, I will personally prepare an early dinner for you, as well as your evening bath before bed. Miss  _Sabine_ , is it?"

Rather than take the bait, Sabine walked forward and bluntly pointed at the bed-frame, ignoring the woman's unsubtle attempt at drawing her into an introduction. "How can she sleep on that?"

"A fresh mattress and clean sheets will be sent within the hour, miss, but I am  _sorry_ , the rest must wait until the morning shift." A dogged, protective tone had entered Mrs. Fulligan's voice. "My boys have had enough to deal with in the past twenty-four hours. They've done their duties, and now it is their turn to sleep as much as anyone else."

Stubborn, Sabine was sticking to her German like a Kantian child plastered to a wall of ideals. "I do not like it," she said. Out of sheer principle, she did not seem to like Mrs. Fulligan either.

"Well that is all very well, young miss…" With a troubled look on her face, Mrs. Fulligan bustled forward and put the candle on the floor. "…but until Mr. Kerr says otherwise, my hands are tied." She folded her hands in front of her as she spoke, resuming her directions to Rena. "Now the lady's bags will be brought up, but I suggest you leave them packed, miss, until the morning when we can clean."

Quietly, Rena murmured her only question, moving to the bed and laying Reinette down upon the bed-frame. It was the first time she had spoken in fourteen hours, her habit of silence seeming to fit with this forgotten wing of the house.  _Mrs. Fulligan had not heard her._ She walked around the room, looking from the floor and ceiling, getting a feel for the place. "Blood?" she said again.

Behind her, Mrs. Fulligan answered…"Oh yes, dear, but we are very _strict_  about rationing." Without further ado, she proceeded to explain, giving the impression of reading from some massive, black-bound rulebook she perpetually kept in her head.  _The word 'dear' was not in it_ … "As a guest in the upper quarter, you will be fed twice daily, three times if you are sickly, and once if you are in the habit of hoarding. There are two warning bells prior to meals. The first giving you a ten-minute warning, the second, a two-minute warning. If you are late, you may go hungry."  _It sounded like an orphanage._  Mrs. Fulligan flipped an imaginary page in her head, moving onto the newest rules, most of which she herself had written. "Although Mr. Kerr has not expressed his wishes on this matter, for the first night, I expect you to dine with him and his guests in the main hall. You must dress and act appropriately as pertaining to good and proper British society." She stressed this point, and then added her disclaimer. "After that, you may sup where you wish as long as you regulate yourself to appropriate times. Should you choose to sup in the den, your rationing is first and foremost subject to den-rules."  _Of which, apparently, she washed her hands._ She held out the room's iron key for Rena. "Until further notice, this key is your responsibility. I expect you to keep it on you at all times."

Turning around, Rena took the key, pocketing it in her dress. She would rather starve than appear in front of a new den dressed as a nursemaid. "I will need my bags…and a guard for tonight," she said, indicating the door. "…while I am in the hall."

Mrs Fulligan nodded. "Of course you will, dear. I will ask Thomas to assign guard-duty as soon as he comes upstairs. Your rooms are through the adjoining door…" Like a hostess, she walked to the shut door, which looked like a closet, and opened it, peering through only to wrinkle her nose.  _Whatever was in there smelled like a dead animal_. Holding her handkerchief close to her face, Mrs. Fulligan quickly closed the door, continuing on her tour without missing her stride. "…and your bags will be brought up soon enough by one of my other boys. I would suggest both you and your charge remain in this room until we have a chance to clean the adjoining one." She touched the handkerchief to her nose again…and then flapped it furiously through the air as if to clear away the dust.

"Now the master may already have spoken to you on this matter…" She was frowning more severely now that she had seen the state of that other room, but she continued reading from the rule-book. "…but when you require a rest from your duties, miss, in future, I would ask him to arrange a permanent relief guard for certain days of the week. Has he spoken to you about your schedule?"

Rena shrugged. "No."

The furrow of Mrs. Fulligan's forehead grew troubled. "Well, you must have enquired about your wages, dear. All members of staff are allowed a personal stipend as well as a…" Her voice almost trailed off at Rena's expression. "…a day off." She looked confused to the point of flustered. "Has he not spoken to you about this?"

Rena shook her head.

Immediately, Mrs. Fulligan took the path of a lioness gnashing her teeth over the misuse of one of her cubs. "Oh I have told him…" She shook the handkerchief again. "…this is the upstairs quarter, and even if the master has no wish to address such matters, schedules must be set. Rooms must be cleaned." Whether it was because of the nursemaid's dress, the dead animal or the inanimate nature of Rena's answer, she seemed to take his oversight personally. "I mean, it is none of my business, miss, but we are a working household…" She seemed to want to wring something with the handkerchief now. "Now we will get to the bottom of this. It is not the first time he has forgotten such things, but…" She folded her hands tightly. "…but in the next week, I would ask him to stipulate your wages, schedule, and relief-guard."  _The secret rulebook of Mrs. Fulligan had clearly been dropped._  "But do not ask him during the daytime, dear, or you  _will_  be asking for it."  _Now, she was just reading the handwritten-notes scrawled on the rulebook's margins._  "…and you must  _keep_  at him. All members of staff are granted a day off and your present situation should be no different." She rapped the handkerchief against the side of her dress and folded it out of sight.

Rena touched her collar, still troubled by the itchy material. She was intrigued by the candour of Mrs. Fulligan.  _She had not had a day off for two centuries._  "How long until I can return?" she asked.  _The prospect of dining in a hall did not sit well with her._ She removed the ring-puzzle from her pocket and left it on the table. Sabine was watching her as she did, smelling of hunger.  _In her youth, she had been just like that one. She had hungered after gatherings. She had fretted over her hair, her dresses, allowing herself to be coddled with gifts.  
_

Again, Mrs. Fulligan looked uncomfortable, pursing her lips together. "Dinner is planned for seven, miss…" This was a subject she seemed to take no relish in approaching. "…but I would suggest that you wait until you hear the bell. It will be late tonight."

Rena shrugged.  _As long as she had time to get out of this dress._

Sabine did not shrug. "Why?" she asked. Her question was a demand.

Immediately, Mrs. Fulligan's lips became a little tighter. The woman took a breath, and then continued as if Sabine had not spoken. "In the morning, I will inform the day-shift that your charge may require extra blood rations, miss. I do not ask questions and I will not tell you how to do your job, but you must take  _care_ that she knows to stay in her room. The drapes are thick, but I would not chance it if I were her." She sniffed. "Now once the master is settled, I will seek further instruction from him regarding her place in the household." She seemed to be already steeling herself for that conversation, the iron tone of her secret rule-book having returned to her speech mannerisms. "For the first week, I will have Thomas bring your meals to this wing, but once you are acquainted with the layout of the house, I will expect you to collect them yourself. Any untouched meals must be brought straight back to the kitchen, and I caution you, miss, we will  _not_  be heating them a second time."

Rena did not argue.  _That rule seemed to be extra personal. The result of a long, drawn-out battle between Mrs. Fulligan and the werewolves of London._ Just talking about it seemed to draw fire into the woman's eye.

"I want to know why the bell is late," Sabine demanded in German. On the other side of the room, she was now peering into Reinette's face, clearly searching for some sign of dust-induced illness to accuse Mrs. Fulligan with attempted murder. She had not changed her tone of voice, and she did not do the polite thing of addressing Mrs. Fulligan by name.

Mrs. Fulligan frowned. "The bell is late because it is late," she said. Picking up the candle, she softened her tone. "Now if you follow me, miss, I will have you settled in the west wing. We have been expecting you for quite some time, so your rooms have been prepared down to the smallest detail…"

Sabine did not move.

Looking mildly irked, Mrs. Fulligan eyed the stubborn child…and then the door. Rena continued to walk the room, waiting for one of them to give in, examining the claw-mark on the wallpaper. By her nature, she might have thought Sabine would win this battle…but by the smell, Mrs. Fulligan was the ticket to wager on.

_She was right._

"You are a persistent child," Mrs. Fulligan said finally. Very directly. "…but do not think you will be spoiled in this household, young miss. Now I will expect you to be a good girl and follow me to your rooms." Without another word, Mrs. Fulligan walked to the door and left.

Smelling greatly irked, Sabine looked at Rena for support. Rena neither smiled nor said anything…but she walked to the door. Following her lead, Sabine stood beside her and together, they watched and listened as the bustling housekeeper passed through the first set of doors, grumbling under her breath. So quiet they might not have heard had they been less attuned to such things. "Late dinner, late bells…" Mrs. Fulligan was in a right dither. A slue of soft, grumbling words caught on their ears." _The bell is late because it is late…_ " She opened the door. "… _and it is none of my business if his lady cannot keep time without using her thighs to declare the hour."_ The door shut.

Immediately at the mention of thighs, Sabine looked up at Rena, but Rena said nothing.  _She had no opinion on that matter either_.  _Whether by spying or word-of-mouth, Sabine would eventually learn about Lucian's habits._  The girl blinked…and then smelling of extreme curiosity, she hastened after Mrs. Fulligan. Glad to be alone finally, Rena watched the child go, and then closing the door behind her, she leaned against its frame.  _Reinette would sleep until tomorrow afternoon…and the dinner bell would not ring for at least another hour_. Reaching her hand into her pocket, she pulled out a small, folded-paper package and walked to the corner.  _She could not stop the words passing through her mind._  She kneeled on the ground and unwrapped the package, revealing a small piece of glass, a blunt razor and a vial of snow-white powder. Powder to take away the pain… _and the memories._

_Mrs. Fulligan had said_ _one of her boys would bring her bags up._

_One of her boys._


	25. The Dream of Kolya

**Chapter XXV: The Dream of Kolya**

_The London Household. Two hours later._

Having just seduced Mr. Alexander Kerr in the most unspeakable fashion, Jacqueline, otherwise known as the forbidden fruit, was now smelling satisfied. Rewarded. Fulfilled even. She had flitted from one side of his bedroom to the other, congratulating herself with a second sojourn in his bathtub, ending it all by embarking on an absurd promenade through his wardrobe. Her clothes were still lying on the floor. Her voice was a very English and very frenetic buzz…

"… _and then she sent for it, Alexander, but I swear, I never asked for it in the first place. I almost tore the thing up in front of her. I don't know why you keep her on…she really is an old prude…"_ The buzz suffered from a fit of husky laughter before resuming its course.  _"…but then I remembered those people you sometimes patroni_ se _. Is that the right word? Patroni_ se _. Can you patroni_ se _a work-house?"_ The buzz sighed. " _Anyway, I was sure they would want the thing, no matter how ghastly, so I sent it to them. Can you imagine the nerve? A work-house sending a swathe of cloth back…"_

There was a pause. The buzz was resting.

"… _Alexander?"_

The buzz was gaining altitude, starting to come awake again.

" _Alexander, are you listening to me?"_

Unconcernedly, Lucian looked up from his writing, realising only too late that the buzz was speaking directly to him, that the buzz required an answer. At the room's end, almost a silhouette in front of the fireplace, she was giving him that eye, her dressing gown open, her fingers gracefully inclined on her hips.  _He hated that dressing gown. It was just one of her many attempts to move in that had gone recklessly awry. Rather than take a hint, she had passively stopped moving and actively started hiding her knickers in his wardrobe._ He had lost track of time, but he would wager she had been dressing for at least forty minutes. _It was mind-boggling. Her only choices were the outfit she came in, the partially-ripped dressing gown or the knickers. What else did she want?_

_Oh yes._

_An answer…_

Scrutinising her, he made an unsuccessful attempt at putting some context to her question _._ She had been talking about… _only God knew what. Something trivial._ And she could tell he was not listening.  _Two hours into their reconciliation and already, she smelled riled._  Putting down his pen and journal, he stood, walking slowly over to her…touching one of the flaxen curls at her face. Studying her face with that steady manner women assumed meant 'enraptured.'  _He needed to fix this…quickly._ Thinking on his feet, he began to improvise…

"You know, I was thinking about you the other day…" he remarked, winding the curl about his finger, looking her in the eyes.  _He had been thinking about getting rid of her, but elaborating on that line was never a wise decision in front of certain women._

Immediately, her ears pricked up. "And…" she said, just short of eagerly.

"And I think…"  _Where was he going with this sentence?_ "…we should reconsider where we are going…" He kissed her ear, buying time for himself. "…in eight days' time."  _A swift calculation. Her date of birth as listed on the lycan registry._   _Let it be the right date…_ "A night on the town perhaps…"

She made a purring sound, her eyelashes flicking softly down, the faintest of blushes rising in her cheeks.  _His calculations had been correct._  Temptress that she was, her ability to fake modesty was about equal to a half-naked bride dressed in grey. "You remembered," she said almost coyly.

"I remembered," he said, touching her collar-bone, leaving another kiss.  _He had not remembered. Raze had reminded him twenty minutes before they arrived in London._ Running his finger down her neck, he finished his exploration of her assets and then slowly, very slowly turned her back towards the bathroom. "…now as much as it pains me when you dress, Jacqueline, I think it is time we remembered to make our way to dinner."  _Brilliant segue. A pity Jacqueline had not the faintest idea what a segue was._

Slipping him a smile, she nodded confidently, preening under his attentions, and then headed for the bathroom, her dressing gown slipping off her shoulders as she walked, giving him a full wolf's-eye view of one of the three reasons why they were still together. The other two were a bit higher.  _He was not proud of it…but for the sake of that body, he was willing to take any measure of dawdling, temper tantrums, and mindless chatter. Hard to justify that sentiment beside his professed sensitivity and love for women…but he was never cruel to them. Callous maybe. Brusque, but never cruel. So easy to ignore that voice…_

… _the one that said Allegra might be onto something. That living with him was a prison sentence. That he was already getting that itch in the back of his neck, the first sign of the end of times._  He could already see it coming. Another break-up, another woman turning into barbed wire on him. _But he could ignore that voice a while longer. He had become practiced at ignoring it._ Whether a prison sentence or a pampered ride through the war, the moment they clapped eyes and thighs on his bed, every one of these women knew what they were signing up for.  _All he asked for in return was that they lay off when their time was finished. No dedications of love, no pleadings to mate for all eternity…once, but never twice._

There was a knock at the door.

"Come," he said curtly.

The door opened cautiously. About six seconds later, the top of Langley's head could be seen peering past the door frame. The boy's eyes were intensely focused on the ground in case his nemesis was still flouncing naked around the room.  _It had happened before_. _While Langley spent his nights avoiding naked bodies, Jacqueline spent her days searching for voyeurs._  "Sir, the…" The boy looked up for a split-second, and then breathed in relief at the sight of the room's singular occupant. "…sir, the dinner is ready. Mrs. Fulligan wishes to know what time you wish to eat, sir."

"Excellent.  _Precisely_ what I wanted to hear." Lucian picked up his book again, retaking his seat. "Present time?"

"Ten to nine, sir."

 _Damn. They were running severely behind schedule. His own fault for giving in to the whims of a purring woman…_ "Right, Langley. Tell Mrs. Fulligan we will be ready in a quarter of an hour. Maybe more." He resumed writing, speaking as he did. "Warn the barracks as soon as we reach the first course. That gives them approximately one hour before I storm the lair."

_One wretched hour._

_Had things gone his way, they would have been in and out of dinner in under ten minutes. But Jacqueline would throw a fit if she were rushed through her moment of grandeur. Allegra had explained it to him once, the prestige of being on his arm, the pomp and circumstance of showing off her position. Apparently mistress to the alpha was a coveted position_ _, particularly in front of other lycan women_ _. The whole business made him uncomfortable. Much like servants._

Bowing repeatedly, the skinny boy began to close the door. "Yes, sir, I will tell them."

" _Langley_ …" He was not done with him yet.  _The boy was always leaving before he was dismissed. He swore, if Langley had not been getting the shite kicked out of him every day of the week prior to his move upstairs, he might have considered getting a new manservant, his mother's friendship be damned. But the boy tried hard enough, and for that, he remained. The London den could be tough on those who were not ready for it. Eventually, Langley would have to go back though. The lycan-master could not be seen coddling what could only be categori_ se _d as a runt for too long.  
_

Langley popped his head around the corner again. "Yes, sir?" His voice had gone a note higher this time rather an octave, his fears of doing wrong showing through.

"Has Raze arrived?"

"He has, sir."

"Excellent, I need you to…" Suddenly, he paused in mid-sentence, tapping his pen against his chin. As usual, he was trapped by the repercussions of making promises to women.  _Eight days' time. It would be a miracle if he could get tickets for anything before eight days' time. But then Raze had grown used to pulling miracles out of his sleeve for the lycan-master's ladies. Hence the reason Allegra had swung so easily to the lycan's side upon the dissolution of their affair._  "…ask him to meet me in the library, four hours from now. On the dot."

"Yes, sir. I will tell him." The door closed softly behind the boy.

As the door closed, a second voice sounded from the bathroom, a significant two octaves higher. "Alexander…" she murmured, sounding both hot and sweaty from the recent exertion of having walked to the bathroom. "…can you help me with my corset please?"

He closed his eyes.  _Someone shoot him._

_Please._

She called again.  _A simple matter of reaching an arm round and pulling a lace. Yet nine times out of ten, she needed help when he was around._  He stayed where he was, wishing he had added extra laudanum to the last hour's fix. The vein in his temple was starting to twitch, the pain in his head becoming a constant undercurrent.  _He knew she could do it._ _He had seen her do it._ Again, she called, turning her plea into a shallow, drawn-out moan. _Did she think it was some kind of stimulant, s_ _pending half the evening gallivanting with her naked body, and then seeing a bit of lace afterwards?_

A fourth time, she called.  _It was the beckoning call that tipped the scales. Four dozen British soldiers at his beck and call…and his evenings were based upon the whims of a nineteen year old girl with the propensity for repeating actions till she had her way._ Feeling an enormous weight drop from his shoulders, he breathed, put down the book and headed for the bathroom.  _He had made his decision. One week after her birthday, he would end it with Jacqueline. She was young. She was fresh. She'd find something to fill the gap with. Maybe Langley.  
_

_o…o…o_

_Elsewhere_ _…_

A mile from Exiles' Quarter, tucked away in the bowels of a dark alleyway, a newcomer was finding his way through a new city. Lost at first. Confused by the smell of toxic smoke, the sound of the demon's tram. The taste of a woman's neck.  _This woman whose neck tasted of stale perfume_ _…_ She'd smiled at him. Dirty hair from a dirty whore in the Exiles' Quarter. Winked with her crow's feet, running a hand up his crotch, trying to make the raven stand for the crow.

"And who might you be?" she'd asked in a rough, South-London accent. The question of how he knew her origins answered in the same way that he knew her age.  _Experience._ Yet if she had asked him at the wrong time, he might not have remembered his experiences…for the memory would have been sleeping. _But she asked him at the right time, so the right answer she would receive._ _  
_

"I am Nikolai Proshkov Andreev," he had said. He was a cordial vampire by nature, so he reached out to kiss her hand. "…but you must call me Kolya."

She did call him Kolya.

And now she was dripping red onto the cobblestones. His thoughts starting to ramble at the sight. _Not his memories, for those were tucked away like the rest of his secrets. The silver key, the whiskey flask and the old photograph in his pocket._ His fingers grasping onto her skin like a spider on the wind, starting to panic in its haste. _There were not enough memories in this woman's blood._

And for the first time, he focused on the blood and understood its meaning.  _This was no dream._ _And the woman was not old enough._ _So_ _he must find another_ _…and another_ _…the blood of thousands_ _if he had to._ _For a promise made can never be broken._  He had told her that he would help her. All those years ago, he had promised to follow and serve for her sake.  _Find the one called Itzhak. Bide your time and wait in the shadows for we will come to you._ _A half year before the time would be right._

_Only his name was not really 'Itzhak.'_

_That knowledge an unlikely gift from one of Kraven's death dealers. One whose ashes had been scattered only days after introducing a new recruit to the coven. A vampire who only stayed among them for two years before it became apparent that people were dying. Weak people. Old people. And then a council member._

_"_ We are  _friends_  now, Mr. Itzhak, _"_ he said, staring at the blood. "…friends." And then he twisted the woman's neck a second time, letting her fall before the red could touch his clothes. Leaving her behind for the dogs to find, the traitors who owned the dark.  _For he was not the only enemy of the one called Itzhak. London was a complicated affair and it had room for many suitors. Their eyes watching him in the dark, following him as soon as he left the corpse and cleaning up his mess. Wiping away the blood and spiriting away the body. They would approach him, he knew…and he would bargain with them._

_But only if they called him Kolya._


	26. Bitter Sentiments

**Chapter XXVI: Bitter Sentiments  
**

_The Library. 12:48 am._

Four hours later, Lucian had retreated to the upstairs library, its drapes drawn and the fire low for the sake of the hour. As usual, he was comfortable in his solitude. The room was spacious, the walls panelled with ivy, cushions upon the chairs, and a pair of oak tables roosting on either side of a thick carpet. In contrast, the twelve bookshelves of the room were filled to their capacity.

He had spent nearly four hundred years amassing their collected value, every book a treasured find, every scroll bartered for its weight in knowledge. Running a hand behind the marble bust of a headless woman, he found the thinnest of his journals and took a seat, his chair facing the fire, the smell of archive lingering on his fingers _._  The marble bust looked on as he began to skim its pages.

 _Every night, though his followers were not aware, he made a habit of noting down the evening's occurrences; useless information to some, but a practical means of giving context to a lifestyle. At the end of the decade, it would be reviewed, any important details transcribed to a more covert location before the original was burned._ Uncapping his pen, he turned to the last entry from three months ago and entered a new date below it…

… _o…o…o…_

_Friday, 10 November 1899_

_"I._ _Dinner tolerable,"_ he wrote. " _New guest requiring introduction to society."_

In retrospect, dinner had been  _short_  of tolerable. Those lycans in attendance had been predictably reserved, many of them asking after his journey, all of them neglecting to broach the one question on everyone's mind.  _Who or what had entered through the stables? Was it a vampire? Was it an ally?_ It was a testament to London society that an entire den could chew on something, while none dared bring up the point. Rather than stomach their whispers, within the week, he would make arrangements for a Gathering of the People, a meeting of the investors as well as the heads of those families who called the London den their home _. They would need an official statement of her presence, though her purpose would not come to light for many months._

While dotting and crossing his letters, he added a very generic mark beside  _'new guest'_ , a personal reminder to check the dates of his travel journal when reviewing this notation.  _He had an excellent memory, but should Reinette fail to outlast the year, it would be beneficial to have a cross-reference as to who 'new guest' was. During their journey, he had always referred to her as 'branded stock'…or in English, an uptight, prying piece of…_

He scratched out the mark.

… _the reminder was not necessary. It would take more than a decade to forget the number of times 'new guest' had put the word 'bastard' in a sentence with him._

_Moving on…_

_II. 'Lady requiring introduction to door.'_

_The word 'lady' lacked a cross-reference, not so much for the excellence of his memory, but because he no longer cared who 'lady' was. All of their names were listed in a book somewhere in this library, their lives spanning the past four hundred years. 'Jacqueline' would be joining them._ Her behaviour during dinner had cemented his decision to move on. In a voice that carried, she criticised the food, the service, the company, and to make matters worse, the only one more oblivious to the mood was the dead pheasant on her plate.  _Past experience said he ought to be arranging her return home as soon as possible. Very few of his mistresses chose to remain in the vicinity after they were cast aside, Allegra being the only exception_. Reminding himself to speak to Raze about the arrangements, he added his third and final notation.

_III. 'Inspection satisfactory.'_

He would never write it on paper, but the barracks had presented a more than satisfying front, every soldier greeting him with a clean bunk and a savage eye for detail. Fourteen feet below the cellar, the London Den, sometimes called the Underground, housed over four dozen soldiers and their respective families. That their families lived in the barracks meant London was a yellow zone on the Line.  _The darker the colour, the more dangerous the zone, the blood-red of Budapest being the most dangerous. In five hundred years, he had not once given leave for a family to lay claim in Budapest. All but the strongest of women were banned from the red zones._

… _o…o…o…_

Finished with his routine, he capped and returned the pen to his left waist-pocket, putting the journal away and starting to drum his fingers on the chair. He was impatient for Raze to arrive, but he would not waste his time while he waited. _Research was in order. There was a double-mystery hovering over Reinette's head, one which he planned to investigate over the coming months._

_Why would an exiled bloodseer journey back into Budapest for the sake of a name? In twenty years, no one had sought her out. She travelled alone or neglected to tell her party of her destination. During his three-day wait at the monastery, Tanis professed to know nothing of her background or the H on her side. She was a challenge, a trick, depending on how you looked at her. Like one of those iron puzzles he used to make, the trick being not in assembly, but in understanding that two pieces were actually three._

The first piece.  _She had been looking for someone. Áris. Off the top of his head, it sounded like a derivative of Ares, the Greek god of war…or bloodlust, to be more accurate. The vampire histories might hold something to that effect, but he would have to search deeper than that if Tanis had been stumped._ The second piece. _The 'H' on her side. He would search the vampire histories, but her brand was so fresh it was like someone cauteri_ s _ed her only in the last century. Had she been caught? Did she escape?_

_The more important question…_

… _where to begin?_

Patient in research if not in the art of basic waiting, his eyes began to amble through the stacks of book surrounding him. The library held the histories of mortal empires, foreign covens, wayward dens, but very little in the way of a catalogue. In the past, he had always sorted his finds into three sections:  _dangerous, private_ , and  _public_.  _Dangerous_  went directly to the lycan registry.  _Private_ went to the second level of his study and required the use of a standing ladder.  _Public_  was more of an idea than an organised, physical space.  _It had no system, alphabetic or numerical. The common rule was to leave a book wherever there was open space, the result being that Persian naval history might very well be in the same section as the chanting practices of Gregorian monks._

His ears picked up steps approaching from the western door. The grandfather clock was fourteen ticks from one in the morning.  _He could hear Raze coming, the lycan's height accounting for the lengthy gap between footsteps._  Using the footsteps and the ticking seconds as a guide, Lucian opened the side-cabinet and poured himself a brandy just as Raze entered from the right. The clock chimed the hour. Lucian downed the glass and poured himself another, leaving the decanter on the table before returning to his seat. _In spite of his approval for drunken combat, Raze was a stickler for avoiding drink while on duty._ He was about to give orders, when his subordinate opened his mouth. The lycan was solemn with an air of readiness. As if he expected to sidestep a flying object in the next few minutes.

… _o…o…o…_

_Two minutes later._

Lucian put his glass down. "Run that by me again, Raze. I'm hard of hearing."

"They will be found," the lycan grunted. He was standing by the brandy. "I  _will_  find them."

"Give me a name, Raze…and for bloods' sake, tell me you checked the roster?"  _Damnation, he felt like throwing something._  He picked up his glass again and stood, swishing the dark liquid and contemplating the fireplace.  _It was no mere coincidence this occurred on the night of their return._

"There are none missing," the lycan said, considering his words. "…but from the location, it may have been one of the loose-women. Her body was gone before we arrived. No tracks, no blood. Her attackers cleaned after themselves and escaped by the roof. We will check the final roster with sunrise."

Lucian let his arm hang, the tip of one finger touching one of the fire-irons.  _He had not expected this. After five decades of truce, why now?_  Drawing back, he turned towards the book-stacks, his nail reaching out to touch their spines. He wanted to claw them. "You are  _certain_  it was one of them?" His voice was almost shaking with anger.

Smelling wary, Raze nodded, holding out a short length of canvas, most of it black for having been rubbed across the stones of London.  _It was one of the scent-cards of the exiles, the only thing to stop a lycan from hunting an exile on the streets._ Lucian abandoned the spines and snatched the cloth, sniffing it.  _Blood. Perfume._ He turned it over, revealing the red X scrawled on the back.  _He had not seen that symbol in over fifty years. An easy symbol to remember, one that stood for a lycan whose name had become associated with insurrection and eventual defeat. One of the few who had been alive when the war first started…_

_Christian O'Riley._

Almost seven hundred years ago, his name had been  _Christos_ …or in Greek,  _Xristo,_ meaning the anointed one.  _The lycan never understood his choice to shelter exiles. It did not matter if they hated the coven or proved their worth. They were vampires, and they should be executed, all of them._

_When Exile's Quarter was set up, the lycan murdered three and left with nine lycans, choosing to live in defiance of the horde's rules. Every few years, another murder would take place, an exile vanishing from the streets with only a blackened scent-card left to answer for them._

_Five decades ago, Xristo's followers were hunted down and with a blade at his throat, the lycan accepted his offer of truce for the sake of their past. His punishment was to remain under house arrest within the city's boundaries. His followers were given leave to remain in London with their families. Their names held a black mark._

"Comb the street and set up a meeting," he growled beneath his breath. He was holding his glass too tight, on the verge of breaking it. "Whoever did this, Xristo or his followers…I want them found within the week." He let the canvas fall to the table and returned to the fireplace. Taking a sip, he grimaced and then tossed the remaining brandy into the flames. They spat with anger. _Xristo could rally his followers in their holes if he wanted, but he would be damned if he let them hunt the exiles on his watch._

_o…o…o_

_The next day. 5:21 pm. Saturday, 11 November 1899._

Reinette opened her eyes. She was in bed, woollen blankets over her body, the mattress firm, the pillows soft with the smell of lavender. Looking up, she saw the ceiling was made of thick cloth with velvet drapes hanging from an engraved four-poster. There was a scent-ball hanging in its centre. She sniffed, reaching a finger out and touching it.  _Fresh lavender._  Seeing her arm, she touched the linen with her other hand, pulling at the sleeves. She felt clean…smelled clean. Someone had washed her hair, taking the time to dress her in a nightgown.  _Rena. Blood forbid the day she thank the woman for her care, but secretly she was grateful._ The nausea was gone…

… _what time was it?_

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her hands moving to her face, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Instinct told her to wait before drawing the drapes, but her fingers were already creeping out, still hesitant to a degree, ready to retract as soon as she felt a burn.  _There was no pain, no heat_. She opened the drapes by a crack, peering out into a shadowy room. Firelight came from somewhere.  _Where was she? They were no longer on the ship. But neither was she in a catacomb. And where was Lucian?_ The question evaporating from her mind as soon as she smelled blood beyond the drapes.

_She was so hungry._

Shoving the blankets aside, she got out of bed, almost tripping over her gown, surprised by the warmth of a carpet under her feet _._ She reached for the ceramic bowl on the bedside table, trying to pace herself as she drank, her hand unsteady so that she spilled down her neck.  _She was too hungry to complain over cold blood_. And then, wiping her mouth against her wrist, she turned to explore the rest of the room, disconcerted as she walked through her surroundings.

The room was twice as large as the one in Paris. The walls were scratched, but beyond that in good condition. Warmth came from a small furnace filled with hot coals, comfort from a pair of low, narrow-backed chairs fit for an upright lady. At the far end, there was a single window covered in several layers of pinned cloth. Beneath the fabric, she made out wooden slats, and though light did not filter through, she avoided walking in front of them. Like the bed, everything smelled of lavender, a cotton ball of scent left in every corner of the room. Bending over, she stepped off the carpet—green with a pattern of tulips and lilies—and touched the hardwood floor.  _Not even a night's worth of dust. Someone had recently swept this room._

Standing, she moved to the left side of the room and opened a large mahogany wardrobe. Her clothes were hung neatly, her boots and bag placed on the floor. She closed it, feeling more unsettled.  _This was not Exile's Quarter…or if it was, this English Den treated its vampires better than she imagined._  There were three doors, all of them closed. Like the window, she avoided them. _Easy for a lycan to open a door, but for a vampire, it could mean burning…_

Searching for her time-piece, she aimed for the final piece of furniture, a rosewood writing desk with a pearl inlay. It had three drawers, her books of the French language stacked in the first, blank paper stored in the second, and the other holding pen and ink. There was a second stack of books inside the desk-cover, but no pendant.

She looked at the doors, and then got on her knees, peering beneath the crack of one, her face pressed against the hardwood floor.  _No light_. She sat up again, considering whether to try the handle.  _The vision would have knocked her out for at least a day. Was it night yet?_ She heard no sounds. Lucian had told her Rena would be her guardian.  _She could not be far. Would they leave her in a place where the sun could shine?_ Her hand was almost on the handle. She remembered herself and drew back, moving instead to the wardrobe and pulling out one of her skirts, starting to dress.  _She had not survived this long by being foolish._   _Better to wait patiently for her caretakers than find her face burning under the sun's care._

Dressed, she moved to the grate, sitting on the floor to warm her fingers. It was taking her some time to grow used to warmth again, like a sensation that had been forgotten. Cold would register in her conscience.  _Stone beneath her knees, the relentless chill in the air, the stench of rats. She remembered lying in wait for the creatures, her hand on the ground, clenching fur as it passed, wrestling the creature to her teeth._ Her hand went to her chest. She felt pain at the memory.  _Sorrow._ Her hand was shaking. _Think of something else._  In her head, she began to conjugate in French. Latin. Old Norse.

Beyond, she heard the footsteps of two people approaching the main door.  _Rena,_ she thought  _…and perhaps Lucian._ A key rattled in the lock. She looked over her shoulder, straightening her back and searching for a mask of calm.  _She would not move for him._

The main door creaked twice before creeping open, revealing Rena and an older woman dressed like a housekeeper, her clothing starched, her hair twisted into a clean bun upon her head. She looked severe.  _Another caretaker perhaps?_  Reinette felt her back slump.  _Her prison sentence was starting and he was not even here to rub it in her face._

She turned back to the grate, trying to listen, but unable to understand a single word.  _English,_ she imagined. They spoke for about a minute, the housekeeping lycan carrying about eighty percent of the conversation. Commanding was a more appropriate word. Neither of them acknowledged her on the floor. Determined to be patient, she focused on the coals, waiting until the housekeeper left before addressing Rena. The woman had locked the door.

"We are in the den?"

"Yes," murmured Rena, tramping forward to open the left adjoining door.

Surreptitiously, Reinette leaned to one side, peering beyond the hard woman's form to see what lay beyond. The left adjoining room contained a small toilette, a ceramic pitcher and bowl, and a bronze basin for bathing. In the centre wall, there was a window, but it had been boarded up with wood, the cracks draped in black velvet. On the wall, she saw her enamelled pendant hanging from a hook beside the window, her scented oil and the ivory comb laid out on what appeared to be a vanity dressing table.  _Vanity for a glorified prisoner. The only thing missing was a mirror._

Getting off the floor, she followed Rena into the toilette. The woman was by the pitcher, washing her face.  _She abhorred the woman, but if they could discuss some ground rules, it might make the next few weeks a bit more bearable…_

Reinette sat upon the edge of the bath. "Is this Exile's Quarter?"

"No." Rena began to dry her hands on a towel by the pitcher.

She nodded, moving onto her next question before the lycan remembered the silent status of their relationship. "Where is Lyosha?"

"Busy."

 _Aloof, vampire-beating piece of whore_ , she thought. She reached out and picked up the ivory comb, touching its teeth. "Will I be allowed to leave my room on occasion?"

"No."

Her lips tightened.  _She should have known the moment she saw that four-poster._ "Not even to go outside?"

"No."

She took a breath, steeling herself. "May I ask why?"

Rena shrugged. "You must ask Lyosha." Her voice was monotone. " _…_ in a month," she added, leaving the toilette and heading for the adjoining door on their right. Reinette balked, her mouth open to argue as she followed Rena. Before she could say anything, Rena opened the door, slipped inside, and shut the door in her face.

Her fingers curled into fists.

_A month?_

She swivelled on her heel and returned to the toilette, starting to pace in the tiny room. She was breathing too fast.  _That smell was driving her insane._ Spying one of the scent-balls in the corner, she kicked at it with her boot, and then crushed it with her heel.

 _All he had done was replace her catacomb with a gilded cage. All of them trapped her…Tanis. Lucian. Hrafn. The raven of…_ She blinked at the sudden memory. _…where? She could not remember the name, but in her eye, she could see it. A snow-covered fortress in the North. A coven of wildlings whose devotion to Budapest was as shallow as an empty lake._

She rubbed her face against her sleeve and then moved to the pitcher, washing her face and hands as Rena had done _. One day, she would remember it all. She would remember. She would get better. She would escape._  She scrubbed her hands until the skin was raw.  _She would get out of here._

Snatching the pendant off the wall, she made to throw it…and then stopped, letting the chain hang from her fingers.  _A month. Was she so easily forgotten? Was his schedule so busy? A simple 'welcome to your prison' would have been sufficient._  She held the enamelled surface up to her ear and then wandered back into the bedroom, listening to the sound of ticking.

Her anger soon turned to despondence. She found herself sitting in the lady's chair, staring into the coals. After an hour, she removed her pendant and let it fall to the carpet. After three, she started unbuttoning her shirt, her corset falling to the ground with a single swipe of her nails. Stepping out of her skirt, she wandered back into her bed and shut the drapes.  _He had left her in a gilded cage. Beautiful and barred._

 _Welcome to England,_ she thought bitterly.


	27. Black for the Sake of Misery

**Chapter XXVII: Black for the Sake of Misery**

_Three nights later. The Study. 5:07 am. 14 November, 1899._

Thumbing the side of his temple, Lucian signed off on the last transfer of the night, a shipment of goods to be sent west.  _Dublin had requested aid for the winter months. With London rationing itself, the most he could send them was dried produce. It was not much, but it would provide a base._ For a good while, he held the tip of the seal-wax over the candle, melting it slow so as to prevent streaks.  _It was an easy task for patient and steady fingers. With two doses of laudanum, he was neither patient nor steady. He was exhausted._ Before the wax was ready, he applied it to the envelope, working it until the circle was large enough, applying the seal when he was finished.

 _It streaked_.

Biting back an expletive, he got up from the desk, stalked to the door of his study and handed the communiqué to the hooded lycan waiting outside. The man bowed his head and hustled down the hallway. He smelled her before she spoke.  _Rena_. Hidden by shadow, she was waiting on the stairs, holding back until he acknowledged her presence.  _He considered shutting the door, but realise_ _d he did not have a decent enough excuse for turning her away. They had already discussed her wages and schedule in the morning, but perhaps she required some clarification on her orders._

At his nod, Rena followed him into the study, closing the door behind her and moving to stand before his desk.  _Most lycans could sense when he needed to be left alone, so either this was very important or she had lost her mind_. He took a seat, clearing the wax shavings away, making a strong effort to sound as if he really meant the words coming out of his mouth. "How can I help?"

Rena stared forward. "The prisoner wishes to leave her room."

"Her request is denied," he said.  _There was a reason Reinette was in confinement._ "Is she eating?"

Rena nodded.

"Sleeping?"

"Yes."

"Good," he said. "Report back by the end of the month. I will have arranged a tutor by then. You are dismissed." Bending to his right, he opened one of the lower drawers, searching for the address of that watchmaker.  _In spite of the murder that had occurred, life went on as usual in the lycan den. Bills were paid, investments were made, and mistresses were avoided._

_That meeting with Xristo would not occur for another four days. Raze had been quick to point out the benefit of snapping two birds with one bite. Jacqueline would have her outing and Mr. Alexander Kerr would have a legitimate excuse for being in the West End. Some rubbish called 'Floradora.' It sounded terrible. He would be in the mood for ripping heads off once it was finished, so it was fortunate the meeting would take place after curtain call._

He heard a woman clear her throat. Briefly, he looked up.  _Rena had not moved_. He smiled, taking out his address book and starting to flip ever so slowly through its pages.  _It was hard pretending his head was not throbbing._ "I take it you have a very good reason for prolonging this meeting?"

He waited.

Amber orbs glinting in the dark, Rena eyed him. Her smell was difficult to read. Her nostrils flared…she was scenting him out. Without a word, she turned around and left. When the door closed behind her, he snapped his book shut.  _What…the hell…was that about? Rena making a request on behalf of Reinette was akin to Jacqueline asking to join Parliament. They could not be friends yet_ _. It was too soon._ _Was the woman actually in need? Sabine was convinced Mrs. Fulligan had poisoned her, but that was next to poppycock._ His fingers began tapping on the book cover. _Curiouser and curiouser.  
_

_P_ _erhaps he could find a free moment in his schedule after all._

… _o…o…o…_

_The East Wing. Wednesday, 15 November 1899._

It was just after one in the morning.

Reinette was seated on the floor, her back pressed against one of her chairs and a blanket draped over her shoulders. At present, she was dressed in a pair of white drawers and a linen chemise. Her hair was uncombed, and she could not remember the last time she had used her tooth-rag.  _As she would be spending the rest of her life in this gilded coffin, she would rather be comfortable than clothed in propriety._

Quite resigned to her fate, she picked up her bowl, reading over the rim as she drank the remains of her dinner. She was in the middle of what appeared to be the first volume of a novel entitled _Le Comte de Monte-Cristo_  by Alexandre Dumas.  _The Count of Monte-Cristo. She had found it amongst her books, perhaps a gift from the bastard at large. As far as she could tell, it was the dark story of a wrongfully-accused Frenchman landing in prison for the rest of his life._   _Either fate was ironic or this was a bad joke on the part of Lucian._   _Her instinct favoured the second option._ She had a dictionary beside her for some of the larger words, but as yet, she had not used it. As she read, the narrator in her head assumed the mournful, grey shade of a pallbearer bringing her sad tidings of Edmund Dantès.

" _Dantès asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another; for a change, however disadvantageous, was still a change, and would afford him some amusement. He entreated to be allowed to walk about, to have fresh air, books, and writing materials. His requests were not granted, but he went on asking all the same."_

From the right, she heard Rena open the adjoining door. On her way out, the woman paused in front of her. Without looking up, Reinette handed her the empty bowl. She had stopped asking Rena questions. The woman fed her, added coal to the grate, and did the laundry. The main door was never unlocked and she was never alone for more than two hours at a time. She heard the woman's steps taking her away and the key rattling in the door.  _Here lies Reinette,_ she thought carelessly, aware that she was starting to smell quite bad.  _Buried alive with a woman whose idea of answering a question consisted of shrugging._ She stretched out on her front, letting her legs cross at the knee. The book balanced between her thumbs and index fingers. The text was predictably depressing. She started cleaning her teeth with her tongue.

" _He accustomed himself to speaking to the new jailer, although the latter was, if possible, more taciturn than the old one; but still, to speak to a man, even though mute, was something. Dantès_ _spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice; he had tried to speak when alone, but the sound of his voice terrified him."_

She heard the key rattle and the door open. Rena had returned. As usual, she did not look up.  _There was no point in looking up. No point in getting off the floor._  The French pallbearer in her head continued to intone the sorrow of Dantès…and so it was with some shock that she heard the deep voice of Lucian joining him rather than the door closing.

"My god, Reinette…" A thoughtful pause before he murmured, "…what  _have_  you been doing?"

She looked up…and then got to her feet, dropping the book. Lucian was in the doorway, staring at her with a rather grim, yet bemused expression on his face. She had not washed in four days. _But then he had forgotten her for five._  Narrowing an eye at him, she picked up her book and folded herself in one of the chairs, her back to him.  _May he choke on the stench,_ she thought. _It was easy for him to come and go as he pleased, but she had to live here. If he needed her services, she would accommodate him, but if not, she was in the middle of a depressing passage, thank you very much._

The door closed and he walked in, sniffing the air and taking the other seat. Her eyes flicked once from and then directly back to the page she was reading. Well-dressed, clean, his hair trimmed. _Oh he would have a night on the town with this one. What was it he called her on the Marie-Therese? 'A clean lady such as yourself…'_  She waited for the sarcasm, but instead he gave only silence, his hand thumbing his chin as if for once, he was truly speechless.

For a good ten minutes, he said nothing, scrutinising her with that damned expression on his face. When he spoke, it was in Latin. Like her appearance made him want to plead to the gods, though his voice only gave boredom for their favour. "You  _do_ realise it has only been five days?"

"I can count," she said under her breath.

Her answer drew a ghost of a smile. "Your quarters are not to your taste?"

" _Very_  comfortable."

"Your food?"

" _Delicious_."

He exhaled, more of a light dip than a washing of hands. "Well then what the devil is the matter with you?"

"Do I not look alright?" she asked, lowering her book. "Do you need me to dress for someone?"

"Of course not," he replied, sitting back in the chair with tranquil abandon. "…but you could wash. If I'm not mistaken, there is a bronze basin through that…"

"I  _know_  the layout, Lyosha." She closed her book with a clap. "The quarters are beautiful and I am thankful." Swiping her nightgown from the ground, she took both book and nightgown and stalked to her bed. "Thank you," she grunted for good measure, tossing the items behind the drapes before crawling in.

" _Reinette_ …" She could hear the faintest mirth in his voice as he called her back, but she ignored him, remaining seated in the dark with Monte-Cristo. Her solitude was not the problem. Neither was Lucian.  _She had been pleased to see him. Pleased that he not thrown her in a dreaded catacomb as he had promised. Pleased that he had not forgotten her, yet what was the point in being pleased when her life would be a flat sea with the occasional iceberg?_

_Perspective._

_That was what had changed in the past five days. This lycan was not her friend. He was her enemy._  "For blood, woman…" His voice had not moved from his seat. "…are you ill?" When she did not answer, he exhaled a second time, seemingly at his own question, a soft undercurrent in the room. "Sabine tells me you were poisoned with dust. Twice I had to convince her you were well, and now I scarcely know whether to keep lying to her."

 _Oh he was a cur._  " _Lying_  to her?" she asked. There was rancorous bite beneath her question. Despite her decision to remain calm whenever she saw him, she had begun to lose her dedication. "How would it be a lie, Lyosha?" She opened the drapes, stepping out onto the carpet again. "Am I not comfortable? Do I not have food, warmth, and constant company? Am I not …" Wrenching the nightgown aside, she found the book and held it up. "…entertained?"

Her anger seemed to slide off his person. He squinted at the spine. "Le Comte de…" Without finishing, he began to laugh, his head angling back against the chair. As if all had become clear with those first three words. "Merciful heavens, woman…are you being serious?"

She flinched. "You are laughing at me?"

"Yes." He reached behind him, pulling the cushion off the chair and chucking it to ground. The lack of comfort seemed to suit him. "How can you  _possibly_  compare your situation to Edmund Dantès?"

She let the book drop with a thud. "We are both in prison."

"And he was whipped for his trouble…" His eyes were reflecting coals, but the light danced in the grey. "…I see no shackles, woman. No whips. Until he finds the treasure of Monte-Cristo, you are nothing like Edmund Dantès…"

She clapped her hands to her ears, cutting him off too late. " _Must_  you ruin the book for me?"

"How else are we going to get you out of this ill mood," he shrugged, getting up and starting to pace around the room, eyeing the disorderly mess. "You've been moping about for five days thinking you resemble a French prisoner trapped on Chateau d'If."

"There is  _nothing_  wrong with my mood." Disgruntled, she picked up Monte-Cristo again.

"For bloods' sake, look at yourself." His voice was sharp. "Six nights ago, you were calm, clean, and self-possessed." Mirroring her action, he picked up the dictionary, putting it on her writing desk. "I suggest you put the book down and take a bath."

" _No_ ," she said. _She was happy with her depression, and that basin could stay dry for a decade as far as she was concerned._

"No…" he grunted, the sound of someone who had done everything. "…what do you need?" He stalked up to her, plucking the book out of her hand, muttering as he turned his back on her. "A walk? Fresh air? I swear, you'd pollute the grounds if I let you out."

"In that case, leave me alone," she muttered.  _What had he expected? He asked her once if she enjoyed solitude and then he expected her to glide serenely about her prison as if she were looking forward to the next century._  "…I would rather be comfortable in this gilded cage than flitter around your den pretending I am enjoying myself."

"Even in your youth, I doubt you could ' _flitter'_ , Reinette…" He moved to her desk, opening one of the drawers at random and dropping the book inside. "…and in spite of that, I will take this as a plea for sanity. If you wish it, we will take a walk in the corridor. Somewhere grim and miserable to suit your mood."

"Walls for walls. I am obliged to you, lycan-master." She curtsied at the knee, mocking his gesture. She did not care if she left the room. _But again, her anger did not slight him in any way._ He barked a laugh at her curtsy, his teeth swept into a half-grin that almost robbed his eyes of the grey. He was not exactly ugly for a lycan…and it was hard not to smile when he did. She locked her jaw.

He seemed to sense as much. "Do you know, Reinette…I have not  _once_  seen a genuine smile on your face?"

"You never will," she said evenly. Without breaking his gaze, she took the pendant from around her neck and dropped it on the ground.  _The same spot she had dropped it five days ago. Blood knew why she continued to wear it._

Eying the pendant, he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms as if she had challenged him. "A single smile, Reinette…" He tilted his head, his good cheer swallowed by the movement as if he had cut it in half. He still had that gift, the guise of one who could change his emotions on a coin. "…what will it take?" He was in bartering mode.

She did not budge. "Freedom."

"Fresh air."

"Done."

He nodded. "Take a bath first before we go. Ten minutes on the outside in exchange for a smile." He had resumed his bemusement. "Tell me, are you sure this will work?" He almost tripped her as she passed by, as though his boot was the only thing worth prodding her with.

She dodged without smiling. "You receive payment when I breathe something  _other_  than lavender."

He raised an eye. "You hate lavender?"

She did not answer.

Taking the time to kick one of the scent-balls out of the toilette, she shut the door behind her. She heard Lucian crouch and then sniff, before he walked back across the room to take his seat again. The water in the basin was still there, cold as the Arctic. Rena had filled it every morning, but she had been in steadfast in ignoring it. Now she stripped and managed to hold her tongue as she washed, trying to warm herself by scrubbing her skin. The water turned black. When she was finished, she dried herself with the towel and then eyed her discarded clothing. It smelled bad. There were blood stains on it. She looked at the door.

"Lyosha."

"Reinette." He sounded preoccupied as if he had found something incredibly interesting to do while he waited. Something that her voice was intruding upon…

"I…" Her voice  _was_  harsh.  _An intrusion_. She broke off. The towel was too small to wrap around her form. He had seen her naked, but somehow it was more embarrassing to ask him for her undergarments. "…never mind," she muttered through the door, holding up the towel, thinking how best to go about this.

"What do you want?" His question was a soft bark.

She barked back. "Can you turn around?"

Instead of answering, he exhaled. "If you need something, Reinette,  _ask_  for it. We have less than five hours until sunrise and I expect your request for fresh air does not extend to…"

" _Clothing_ ," she hissed. "Now can you please  _turn_ , so I may get some?"

There was silence. She waited to hear him answer, but instead, without so much as a moan, she heard him get up and the sound of her wardrobe opening. She heard the hangers being moved aside, one after the other as if nothing was quite to his taste.  _Was he…picking her wardrobe? He was…lycan._ The hangers stopped and with a rustle of cloth, she heard his footsteps approaching, his finger knocking once against the door.

She opened it by a crack.

He was leaning against the side with the black widow's dress. "Black for the sake of misery," he murmured with a smile. He had switched to French.

"Or mourning," she replied in French, snatching the dress and shutting the door.

From beyond, she heard him laugh, his footsteps returning to the seat. "Whenever you are ready, mademoiselle." His words were confident as he sat back. "Whenever you are ready." It made Reinette look at the door. Oddly enough, though he bartered for smiles, she was certain his smile had faded as soon as the door had closed. She looked at the dress he had chosen for her and then stepped into its skirt, hurrying before he changed his mind.  _Fresh air. The night sky._

_Blood, she had not seen the stars in weeks._


	28. Spare the Devil

**Chapter XXVIII: Spare the Devil**

_The East Wing. 1:46 am_.

Left to his own devices, Lucian traced his hand along the siding of his chair, feeling an air of quiet settle upon him as the door closed.  _Black for the sake of mourning._ Rather than acknowledge the irony of that statement, he contented himself with a change of thought, steering clear of whatever emptiness there was for lingering on his past.

Instead he tried to recall the last time he had been in this room. Six years ago, maybe seven. To his pleasure, upon entering, he had found no evidence of his final argument with Allegra. _Battered doors exchanged for pristine ones. Scratches covered in whitewash and lavender to mask the scent._ He blinked, staring at the wall.  _That scar…he could still see it in his mind's eye, but the day-shift had done well to hide it away. A quick sanding and a length of precisely matched wallpaper were all that remained of it._

He heard Reinette open the door, the rustle of the black as she passed behind him and took her coat from the wardrobe. She was clean again. She had found her veil, the gauze dimming her features to a gloomy mask, the blue irises losing some of their shine.  _Absurd that she could suffer all manner of indignities, yet persist in hiding her face._   _The root of pride more than dignity,_ he decided, watching her button her coat and kneel to lace her boots, one after the other _._ She still looked miserable, but at least there was a whiff of anticipation in her smell. Excitement even. More to the point, she had calmed down.  _No longer snatching things and flinging books to the floor._

Hands deep in her pockets _, s_ he settled herself down to wait in the opposite chair, checking first that her gloves were present before tucking them away again. She made no reference to her previous state of wallowing nor to the fact that five minutes ago there had been more dried blood on her face than he cared to remember. In fact, she seemed to be under the impression that she could pretend it had not happened. _L_ _ike hardened clay broken to fit into a mould, her back a little too straight, her lips a touch too sullen._ _A_ _nd by a stretch of the imagination, he could see it._ _The 'stuck up piece of work' as Tanis had called her._ _The young woman travelling alone, her belongings left behind in some lodge, her task one of secrecy._  He was about to stand, but she spoke first.

"You are very cheerful tonight," she said, quite out of the blue. Her stare was plain and direct, the statement a dull echo of the accusation underneath. She had thrown aside her momentary French for their mutual Russian. Her French, he suspected, was not yet up to conversation.  _As to her accusation...well, it was true. He was feeling more positive than usual. He had woken early around four in the afternoon. His watch had finally been sent off for repairs. The headaches avoided him throughout the day. Around nine, Jacqueline officially retreated to her quarters, hoping some imbecile would mistake her for an expecting mother. He worked through dinner, confident that he was not an imbecile, and as a result, business ended early. In a word…sublime._

"You find it problematic," he said, by no means surprised by this latest paradox of Reinette.  _She was made of paradox._   _The first night, he frightened her out of her wits, three weeks later, she had the audacity to reproach him for being dour…and now she was bothered by his cheerfulness after four days without washing._

"A little," she replied coolly, turning her head to look at the door. "More so when you force the sentiment upon others. Is it cold outside?"

"I didn't think to check." He tapped the side of his chair, getting her attention again. "How is it you get to call me dour in Paris, but the moment I scrape you off the floor, you have an agenda against good cheer? Do you intend to be miserable for the entire century?"

"I am still  _thinking_  on it, Lyosha."

"Well think on it, Reinette…" he replied, stretching his legs out. "…but do not be so  _dour_."

His blatant mockery only earned him an unaffected sniff before she changed the subject, as though she were choosing not to react to something entirely immature.  _More so_ , that if she had to reply, she might be forced to say 'we are not amused by your inherent wittiness, Lycan-master. Please be more serious.'

"You know, I pictured you as a night-sleeper," she remarked. _She was doing it again. Probing him with accusatory statements that had little to do with matters of prison or war._ Whether it was his good mood or actual interest, he was willing to humour her.  _Without the blood stains and filth, she seemed a little more optimistic…no longer hissing._

"A night-sleeper," he said. "…and what gave you that idea?"

Her face took on the dry air of one who could not help it if her subject was so obvious in his movements. "A lycan in hiding would benefit from mortal habits…" Her next remark came with a shrug. "On the journey, laudanum was a necessity for you to sleep when I did, which is consistent with a diurnal lifestyle…" As an afterthought, she said. "…and your skin is tanned." She focused on a part of his neck. "Unevenly, I might add."

 _So she was still hissing. Diurnal, like a flower that hid during the night. It was a term often used in botany._ He was mildly curious of what else she had been doing beyond categorising his life, but aloud, he said, "Two of your observations are correct."  _All three had a grain of truth to them, but he could not sleep without laudanum, whether it be day or night._

"The first and the third," she said, pursing her brow. "…while the second, I believe, requires an addendum." When it became clear he was not going to give her one, she pulled one of her gloves out and started to flick it against the side of her chair.  _Flick._ "I suppose it is foolish to ask for more than ten minutes outside?"

"Yes."

"Well then we should hurry." She smelled sullen again. _Flick._

He shrugged. "Only if you wish it," he said. "…and as I mentioned, we have around five hours until sunrise, so that gives us a two-hour window."

 _Flick._ "To do what?" Her voice was getting progressively short with him. "I dress, we talk and then you abscond to the next exciting point of your day. Probably Rena. You seem to forget I have no choice, Lyosha…that I am locked up. Your schedule dictates the timing.  _Me_ …I am stuck here at the end of it."

"Well for once, I have time to wallow with you," he said. "…so if you want to talk, we can talk, but once we get back from that stroll, I am leaving. My schedule may be empty, but traipsing around the snow is for your benefit not mine." She did not seem inclined to answer that.  _Flick. Flick. She kept on flicking that glove against the chair. Though it begged reason, he found himself enjoying the sound. It was like the ticking of a clock. Repetitious. Precise._ Unconcerned, he let his eyes close, all but the tiniest sliver to keep an eye on her.  _Flick. Flick. Flick.  
_

She found her voice after the tenth flick of her glove. "Lyosha," she said.  _Flick._

He waited for her to continue.  _Flick. Flick._

" _Lyosha_?"

He opened one eye. "What?"

"Why do you not answer?"

"Reinette…" He had the grace to explain the source of irritation in his voice. "…there are two people in this room, yes…" He did not wait for her nod. "So logically, there is no need to call my attention. If you speak, thick as I am, I can probably deduce that you are addressing me…"

"Your eyes were closed…"

"Barely," he said. In spite of his griping and the stubborn twist now working its way through her jaw, he was enjoying her company.  _She was not lycan, so there were no pack politics. She was not young, so he had no desire to charm her. As a consequence, he was getting more and more comfortable in this chair._ "…and call me Alexander. We are in England, so you may as well use my English name."

She frowned, looking at the fire. "I prefer Lyosha."

"I don't recall giving you a preference, Reinette."

"Then I'll name the dog Lyosha."

He obliged her _._  "What dog?"

"The one you will give me," she said decisively, starting to play with the golden chain around her neck. "I thought it would fit well with my prison. I could keep it by the fire and see which one of you comes faster when you're called."

"I'll wager the dog," he said.  _Fascinating the way vampires only used one insult._ "And if I win, I get to name you after another queen," he determined. Starting to get sick of the cushions, he took both out and dropped them on the floor.  _Marie Antoinette. Publicly reviled. Covered in blood towards the end. It could be quite fitting_ , he thought.

She grimaced, her eyes jerking towards him suddenly as though he had done something rude. Her frown becoming quite stern before she returned her attention to the pendant.  _Perhaps willing to admit that a battle of words would not draw any blood._  "Names aside then…" She continued to pick at the clasp, perhaps dissatisfied with his unwillingness to curl up and die. "…why are you doing this?"

He had to laugh at that. "Doing what?"

She exhaled, clearly as frustrated by her surroundings as she was confused by them. "You tell me I am not Edmund Dantès, you see that I am insulting you, and yet…" As if she could not fathom such a thing coming from him, _s_ he gestured around them.  _The high ceilings that once housed the majority of his mistresses._  "…you give me  _this?_ "

"So?"

She narrowed the eye. "So why?"

"Why not," he said. "…you deal with me, I deal with you. We return the favours we are dealt. I may as well keep us both comfortable while I do it."

It had been an offhand statement. The words spoken with no intent, but the effect causing an unexpected transformation in his listener. Her face remaining cold, but her smell starting to change. Like a caged bird starting to rethink its first instinct, she was studying him, now chewing the edge of her pendant _._ "So it was  _true_  what you said on the ship?"

"Depends," he said, looking at the door. He was getting that itch between his shoulder blades.  _The one that was always…perfectly-timed. The one that seemed to know precisely when fresh milk was about to go sour._

"On what?"

"Well, we could  _start_  with what I said," he suggested. "…and then I can verify if it was true." In some ways, it was surprising even to him that he was still sitting there.  _But it was not as though he was invested in her impression of him._ In the end, he kept his seat. "Remind me of the details?"

She flicked her pendant away as though she had tired of it. "You offered me an  _escape_ , Lyosha. That hardly constitutes a 'detail.'"

_An escape._

_Not entirely impossible, and yet highly improbable._ He frowned, thinking back.  _It all sounded very familiar._ _She had thrown up. Laudanum in hand, he'd been talking to her. She'd been singing something._ And now that he thought about it, he was sure that he'd overheard Reinette whining to Allegra about some vow he'd made to bury her underground. Something he'd chalked up to nonsense.

 _And to be fair, it was his journals that made the memory this time of year, not his laudanum…and unfortunately for Reinette, he failed to write this one down._ Already starting to slouch again, he took a stab at the details. "…and this happened on the first ship?"

He heard a faint scoff of disbelief from behind her veil, as though he were making a bad joke. "Well of  _course_  it did, Lyosha." She looked over to his chair and then returned her gaze to the fire, her fingers now wrapped around one of her gloves, twisting the leather in a manner that suggested she was imagining the leather to be something else. "You do  _remember_  of course?"

 _No point in lying_ , he thought, managing to exhale most of the air in his lungs before he shrugged. "I expect Raze does."  _He'd meant the sentence to be reassuring, but perhaps shocking was a better word for it._

"You expect…" she said softly. Almost to herself. Her voice weaker than usual. Her eyes starting to sear in their colour, the veil only just managing to mute the sight if not the scent. And then like a whip, her glove slapped against the chair arm, the moralist on her tongue starting to seethe. "…you promised to  _bury_  me in a catacomb, you drug-addicted bastard. How can you  _possibly_  not remember that?"

 _Big words from a woman who'd forgotten her own name._ But she was gaining steam. Had the glove not been in hand, he suspected she might have been shaking. Regaling him with the horrors of his company. "You said I'd die or come to my senses."

_Possible._

"And yet you  _don't_  remember?"

_Not technically._

"Spare the devil," she whispered, sitting back in her chair to look at him and then closing her eyes.  _Three questions to seal her opinion of him, the moralist in her blood now rolling up her sleeves before she chopped off his head._  "Is there  _anything_  worth keeping in your memories?"

 _Lots of things,_ he decided, scratching his beard in a manner that he hoped would come across as indifferent.  _Like observing one's attackers from a particular high horse._  "Only if it affects me on a daily basis." _  
_

"Well this wager affects  _me_." And by her tone, if wishes had anything to do with his high horse, they would still be at the start of the track, trying to struggle through the gate. "The least you could do is remember it."

_Oh for bloods' sake._

_They both knew she knew he could do it._

Feeling mildly defensive, he rolled his eyes and began the unavoidable task of working his way back through his memories.  _The strength of age allowing him to travel back. Remember what he would and discard the rest._ His mind filling with colours and sounds, the smell of rancid blood sweeping across an oak floor that had seen too many days at sea.

His conscience suddenly wary of what he was looking at.  _She in the corner, his thoughts as he toyed with her._ _Buried anger over that song. His first night back on the drug, of course, it would be fair to say the laudanum had affected his decision-making._ _Perhaps it might have been more polite to deal over blood-wine than blood dripping down his teeth._ Then again, it paid to look ahead, and in fifty years, Reinette might be a powerful chip in the game of lycan politics.

He turned his gaze back towards the chair across from him, letting go of the memory before it could turn to something darker. "Fine," he said. "Third of October 1899. Two hours after sundown, I wagered that before a year was done, you'd choose to stay in my den rather than escape. Neither of us was in the best frame of mind, but I will assume that you want the deal to stand. Are you satisfied?"

She was quietly drumming her fingers on the chair arm. "Only if  _you_  are, Lyosha."

_Perfect._

_He knew that trick. They were veering into mistress territory again. She was repeating him, questioning him, and now chiding him for failing to remember an important date._ Rather than remove himself from his slouch, he skipped the pleasantries. "Can we agree that you're  _not_  satisfied?"

"Oh no…" She was already seeking out the clasp on her pendant-watch. Her fingers riled enough to make the process more difficult than it normally would have been. "This is very satisfactory behaviour for an opium addict, Lyosha. I mean, blood knows, it must be hard enough remembering one wager, let alone two."

He exhaled towards the ceiling. "Can I assume that you will  _eventually_  get over this?"

She eyed him...and then threw the pendant. Wrapping herself deeper into her coat with a scowl. "Eventually."

"Good…" He let his fist fall to the side of the chair, the chain of the pendant now hanging from his fingers. She had flung it towards the fire, but as usual, his instincts were quick enough for him to catch things without seeing them. "…because this is your  _last_  opportunity, Reinette. You  _asked_  me to remember the wager, and I have remembered it. There are no second chances now that the stakes are set."

"If you can  _remember_ the stakes," she muttered.

"Of  _course_  I remember," he snapped, feeling the urge to bare his teeth at her.  _A familiar tension had entered their conversation._ He leaned back, adopting a comfortable pose for what must be an uncomfortable truth for her. "Choose to stay in the den, woman, and you become my ally for the next century, regardless of what happens to the horde, the den, the exiles, or the war. You have a year to decide. Does that sound familiar enough to you?"

"Or…" She did not look impressed.

He gestured. "… _or_  you gain your freedom and Tanis' head for little more than finding a hole in the wall."

_If it had not caved already._

She frowned in suspicion. "Good," she finally said, now smelling like a moulting bird with its feathers in a twist.  _Clearly not a creature that enjoyed being forgotten._ The scent still raging within even as she stood, gathering her skirt and stepping closer to the grate. He might have asked her if she was sure, but she was already moving to her next topic of interest.  _Always another question with this one._

"But why did you offer me his head," she asked now, holding her hands closer to the coals.

_Closer._

_She was not fleeing the fire. That was good. Her appearance moving away from the cadaver he had first seen, the corpse-like creature which could not bear the touch of heat. The straight back and her tendency to elongate the neck helping her height, though it was more an illusion than anything else; she was quite short really._

He blinked, forgetting for a moment that his answers were beholden to no one. "As I recall, you wanted it."

"Yes. But I would have taken the deal for my freedom alone…" The light from the fire made her profile into a silhouette. "…which makes me wonder why  _you_  want it."

" _Personal_  question, Reinette." Not quite a warning, but he was conscious that they were moving into uncharted territory. "I can give you the bare bones, but are you sure you want to go down this path?"

She shrugged. "What's another lock among a dozen?"

"Fair point." He scratched the side of his neck, his nails growing instinctively. Sharp enough to grant relief without breaking the skin. "Call me sadistic, but I could go either way on that one. Historically, Tanis is worth a great deal. Politically, the majority of my horde likes the look of his neck…and as of late, I am growing more inclined towards their point of view." _All they needed was brandy, and his visit might have grounds for a political debate._ "If you were to escape, the issue would come up before the horde and a vote would occur. As I have the final say, I suspect we would be lopping his head off before midnight."

"So lycans can  _vote_ ," she said.  _It seemed to be a questionable concept for her._ Her hand reached for the poker-iron. "…but when did you first start dealing with exiles? A century ago…two? Before that, we were picked off the streets. Guaranteed murder for anyone living beyond the coven." She inclined her neck, frowning across at him. "And now there are vampires in the palm of Exile's Quarter; safety for all those who can prove their worth." He could see where this was going, the iron stoking the coals, the barrage of questions.  _She was wondering how long until he swung a vote on her neck._ "I am curious, Lyosha, how long have you known Tanis?"

"Personally…" He considered telling the truth, but decided against it.  _Up until now, he had given her bits and pieces, but his relation with Tanis was something far bigger than that._  "…about two centuries."  _Make that seven._ "…but like many of us, I've known  _about_ him for longer than that."  _The vampire had taught them how to read Latin. Both of them._ He quelled the memory before it could fester.

The blood-seer before him failing to notice what could not be seen, now turning her back on him. Her next question seeming to have little to do with their previous topic of conversation. "…and you are familiar with the game of 'chess'?"

"I may have played it once or twice."

_After all, he was an addict and according to Reinette, that made you senile._

She ignored the sarcasm. Leaving the coals, she tapped the poker-iron against the grate and used one end to plot a series of squares on the floor between them. "I ask because I used to play a game called  _Valdskák,_ " she said. She had entered what he now recognised as her moralistic scholar mode."Sixty-four squares. Thirty-two carved pieces of blackened wood and reindeer bone. A thirteenth-century variant of 'chess,' as you call it."

"Myself and a few others."

Again, she took no notice of the jibe. "Years before the war began…" It was as if she had to relive the moment.  _She, seated by the fire and across from her, the opponent._  She ran her palm along the edge of an imaginary board. "…the Norsemen taught me to call the pieces by name: the Pawn, the Rook, the Knight…"

"…the Bishop, the King, the Queen," he intoned. "Tell me when the metaphor begins."  _Where was this going?_ The silence told him how little attention she was paying him…which was fine by him. The seat was hard. His slouch was comfortable. He had time to spare. "…and do not be fooled, the eyes may be closing, but the ears are all there."

"And still you are not listening," she countered, kneeling on the floor, leaning closer to the fire as if she could see what was happening. "In my memory, Lyosha, these exiles that I played with…we started to use different names. Names for the black and names for the white. There were always stories coming down from the covens, but we were exiles, so it did not matter to us what they stood for. After the slaves rebelled, the whites were the bloods. The blacks were the serfs."

Now he was listening. His eyes no longer closed, and his ears now trained on her every word.

 _She was remembering_ … Her fingers sweeping along the board, the respective place of each piece. "There was the Peon," she said.  _The pawn…_ "…the Castle and the Horse…"  _The Rook and the Knight._ For a moment, she covered her eyes, like a horse trying to blinker itself into finding the right path. "…the Historian on the left…"  _The Bishop._

"…the Blacksmith in the centre…"  _At the name, his eye twitched._

_One left._

_She was thinking hard._ So hard that she had forgotten she was talking to him.  _The Blacksmith in the centre…_

"…and his Wife on the right," she finished, snapping her fingers and turning to look at him. There was a bold pride in her smell, her eyes lit from within…and in a manner of speaking, he was pleased for her.  _She had remembered names from almost five centuries ago._ Pleased until he saw her blink, the seer now realising where she was. The pupils now seeking the fire again, her scent filled with caution and confusion. He could feel the pendant-watch ticking in his hand. _Any second she would ask_ …

"You were married," she said quietly, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

Rather than deny it, he studied her veil, focusing on that which lay in front rather than behind.  _He could feel his smile losing some of its depth._  " _Vald_ - _skak_ ," he said, sounding the word out as if the language interested him more than her question. "Is that Old Norse?"

"Icelandic," she corrected, for a moment swayed by his misdirection. Licking her teeth for a split second, she got to her feet. "I never became fluent, but it did not matter at the time. The traders spoke Old Norse or one of the Sami dialects. My mentor would have me translate." She raised her hand to her chin as if she were brooding on a matter that had never sat well on her chest. "Usually after a game of  _tablut_ , but I gave that up after the outsiders brought seal-voda to our cave _…_ "

_Seal-voda?_

He raised an eye at that.  _No wonder she could drink_ _Bikavér._ _Seal-voda was the immortal's answer to Scandinavian vodka. Fermented seal's blood mixed with a healthy dose of chicken marrow. The stuff was lethal._

She noticed his look all of a sudden, a furious blush rising. "…I mean, _Valdskák_ _."_

"You said  _seal-voda."_

She shook her head, raising a hand as if to push the past back. " _Valdskák_ _."_ Her resolve firmed. "The word translates as Guard Chess. It means that any piece that is guarded cannot be taken, including your Historian." She was back on point.

" _My_  Historian?" Now that got him riled.

"Precisely," she said. She was not frightened by his tone. It was like watching a flame kindle above her head. "You were the Blacksmith. He was the source. The histories, the treatises, the legend…it was his words that passed from mouth to mouth. Always the Historian. He was the one who wrote about you."

"…and the words were very unflattering."

"Truth gives birth to hate, not flattery, Lyosha."  _She was showing her age again, the remnants of a Latin proverb butchered into Russian._  "…and I am looking for truth." She resumed her seat across from him. "If Tanis was a creature of Viktor in the fifteenth century, how is it possible that he could play for your side of the board?"

_Right._

_This conversation was getting taxing now. His historian, his side…was there anything else she wanted to throw on his back?_

He deflected her inquiry. "…I would assume that has something to do with misinterpretation rather than history." He had long since been staring past the veil.  _What was Tanis worth to him? Information, history, books. His mood had been good. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss the past. Scholars believed Viktor spared Tanis because the vampire had saved the Elders…but he knew Viktor kept him alive for another reason._ He gestured with a cold care. "Tales change as they travel, and Iceland is a far cry from Hungary."

"My memory is not perfect, Lyosha, but was it not Iceland that Viktor fled to after the revolt? He came by ship. Tanis would have been with him, and both would have had much to share with the Scandinavian covens. You, on the other hand, stayed in Hungary…" She was very good at that look.  _Mildly curious female holding an axe behind her back._  "…and since that is your definition of the source…"

"I never said that."

She pointed. "You insinuated it. You also suggested there is a true tale waiting to be told. One which I suspect you know."

"You can suspect."

"Or you could tell me."

"Or we could pretend it's like the knife in my boot. It exists. It's sharp. You know it's there, but unless we get into dire circumstances, you won't see me bandying it about for the entire world to see."

"But you will have to…"

"Oh look…" He leaned forward and hooked her pendant-watch with a nail, flipping it open in front of her. "…time for your walk. End of story."  _She was starting to remember details from her past. He, on the other hand, had buried what needed to be buried and the rest he abandoned. Living in the den, she would find out, but if he could help it, a significant period would pass before she did._

"I will accept that for now…" She did not shy away from his nail. "…but if you plan to be my ally, Lyosha, you will have to tell me these things eventually…" Her eyes were gleaming again, the irises changing behind the veil. He felt a chill all of a sudden.  _He had seen that look before. Somewhere.  
_

He dropped the pendant-watch in her lap. "We discuss the matter in three decades."

"One."

"You just made it four."

" _Four_ ," she scoffed. "I will be gone by then. Or dead."

He did not answer that.  _Blood knew why he humoured her like this._  Getting up, he moved to the curtain and ran his nail along the bottom, tearing off a long, horizontal strip of black cloth. _For at least the first year, the less she saw, the better._ He crossed the room and held out the strip. "Black for the sake of misery," he said. His smile had faded completely, but he made a last minute attempt to soften the blow. "It will complement your wardrobe."  _He knew she had not expected this._

She stared at the blindfold, her neck tight like she was holding something back. Weariness. The smell of disappointment.  _She had wanted to see…_ He could see pleading in the irises, but he had nothing for her.  _She_ _would be blindfolded until the den accepted his decision to keep her in the upper house._ When she did not take the cloth, he tied the knots himself. He waited for her to stand and then took her by the wrist, leading her out of the room. _The gardens were snowed in._ _She hated lavender_ _, but maybe he could find something more to her taste_ _. Something that would prompt that smile he bartered for._

_Besides _…_  
_

__…_  w_ _hy else did they have a conservatory, if not to rip the heads off flowers?_


	29. Saffron in the Garden

**Chapter XXIX: Saffron in the Garden**

_The Back Door to the Garden. 3:24 am_.

Fifteen minutes later, they stood in a shadowy doorway, a light white gusting through the air, only one of them able to look upon a snow-dusted lawn. Blindfolded, Reinette was behind him, her breathing far too soft, her smell far too poised for his liking.  _She was not speaking to him_. Possibly because she had run out of things to say…or maybe…because of his more recent demonstration of how easy it was to choose between sympathy and efficiency.

_It had started off well._

_…_ _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_

They had entered the corridor and managed an uneventful turn through the maze that was the East Wing. Dust-covered memories from his past.  _The drawing room. The pianoforte. The brandy._ Only after they reached the staircase did he begin to notice her unease, her boots clamping on the steps, her movements jerky, the blindfold causing her to trip every five seconds. An eighth of the way down, she chose to stop, wrapping one arm around the banister and clutching his arm as if her life depended on it.  _A vampire. Afraid of falling._ Left with no choice, he had surprised even himself when he said, 'Let go,' and picked her up, balancing her for a moment against the banister. She had mumbled her thanks, breathing heavily as if stairs were some heady ordeal that he was rescuing her from.  _Unfortunately, that was not the case…_ _like any vampire, young or old, she had to learn to trust her instincts._

There was no time for her to scream. Two stories below, she landed on the balls of her feet, her limbs bending into the fall rather than away from it. The dress spreading like a pool of black, almost imperceptible from where he stood. From so far above, it was a beautiful thing to watch. Graceful even. Like throwing a fish into water. A second later, he landed beside her, taking in the blinded look of shock on her face…the open mouth. The wonder you sometimes saw in a child taking its first fall. Taking her wrist, he forced her to stand and walked on before she could catch her breath. He had known she could do it…the only thing holding her back was fear.

 _The real problem started afterwards, as they were walking through the house._ They had been walking on carpets for so long that at first he did not notice when they stepped onto the floorboards. _Hollow wood. Creaky steps. The sound of leather boots. There should have been something, but to his surprise, there was only silence as she walked_. More, she had stopped bumping into him. He found himself studying her movements, watching as she became more efficient, more fluid as though her body were remembering things it had forgotten.  _Habits of stealth: walking with the heel, rolling the feet, breathing in slow, measured breaths._ She stilled when he did, she stepped when he did. All with nary a sound. So that by the time they reached the back door of the kitchens, he felt like she had absorbed his shadow. Like he was being stalked by his own personal deathdealer.  _He had enjoyed the feeling once, but so much time had passed that he did not relish it any more._

_…_ _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_

He reached behind, but her hand was already reaching forward. She was listening for the same signs.  _Steps. The crunch of snow. The count of the patrol. He was quite certain now that in her past, she had been trained in more than just bloodsight._ He frowned and then took her outstretched wrist, stepping forward onto a stone path as the patrol turned the corner. The chill of the outdoors hitting him, the falling snow covering their tracks. Ahead, there was an old wooden gate leading deeper into the garden. A sighting would be unavoidable, so for propriety's sake, he slipped Reinette's wrists behind her back, forcing her to walk in front of him. Like the prisoner she was.

On the other side of the gate, he made a short-handed signal and almost in the same moment, a very sombre-looking, black-haired lycan uncurled himself from one of the evergreens above their heads. He and four others landed under the cover of falling snow, bowing and then leaving in silence. _Come morning, there would be five different stories circulating the den, all of which would begin with the words 'you will not believe what the lycan-master was doing last night.' All stories would end with the words, "_ _…_ _and she was old.'_

He started to walk faster, already drafting the statement in his head.

_"Dear London investors, No doubt you have heard the rumours by now._ _There is a vampire in the den and as of late, I have been in her company. (_ _Far be it from me to keep you from juicy gossip_ _.)_ _As it is, I am not, as the whole den would have you assume, consorting with every female that moves, young or old. (On that note, addressing Gautier, Jacqueline and her mother will be returning to your household before spring.)_ _Sincerely, Alexander_ _Kerr_ _, Esquire. P.S. I realise we got off on the wrong foot, Gautier, but I would appreciate it if you could stop preparing for my imminent death. In all honesty, I had no idea she was your daughter until that night we met in the opera-house."_

_Maybe he would rethink the wording.  
_

A few more turns on the path, flanked by tall hedges, and they stepped through a second gate, entering a fifty-square foot expanse of ground covered in a thin layer of untouched snow. Leafless branches and brick walls kept the area hidden from lycans and mortals alike. At the far end was the glass conservatory, an intricate structure crafted of iron, windows and wood. The outer frame was relatively large, stretching twenty-five feet across the snow. During the day, James Whitby, their silver-haired gardener, made it his business to guard its door as if he believed every lycan was born with a hatred of flowers.

_Once mortal, Whitby had suffered a neck-breaking fall in the autumn of 1859. His twelve-year-old assistant made an error in judgment and two days later, their now rapidly-healing, entirely-lycan gardener experienced the first pangs of Change. Not only did the man survive, but after the initial shock, he seemed to believe fur and teeth were an equal trade for being able to smell azaleas from two hundred yards away. No one asked whether it was equal to being eighty-three for all eternity._

He pushed against the cold, iron handle.  _Locked_. Through two layers of glass, he could see the prize inside, calendulas, chrysanthemums, snapdragons, poppies…he was especially curious to see how well the poppies were doing in his three-month absence. From the look of it, James was taking care of them as required. Dry conditions, as much sun as winter would give them.  _The next crop would be needed soon._

"Wait here."

Her response was prompt. "For how long?"

 _So she was talking to him again._ "Less than ten minutes," he said with a vague wave of the arm. "…just muck about the garden or something. Get a feel for the place." He edged along the conservatory, picking up rocks here and there, placing them back as accurately as possible.  _The key was around here somewhere, but Whitby had a habit of changing the hiding place every second moon._

" _Muck_  about," she said. "You mean wander?"

"Yes, wander…" He sniffed the air…and then changed direction, following the whiff of tobacco coming from the wall on his left. "…but try and stick to a path. We have a number of snowdrops, and _yes_ , I have a mind to see them grow this winter." As expected, her smell tipped from mild confusion into utter skepticism.  _She thought he was being sarcastic. Lycans might jest with one another, but when push came to shove, most were comfortable enough in their masculinity that they could admit reading poetry without an axe, and yes…having snowdrops planted in a garden._

She started to walk.

"And no scuffing along the perimeter," he added suddenly, eying the direction of her walk.  _He could not keep the irritation out of his voice. He also could not count the number of lycans he had told off for tunnelling in this garden. Unlike his wilder predecessors, most of his men had managed to curb some of their earthy habits, but it did not mean the ground was altogether safe along the edges._

"I do not scuff," she replied bluntly. "…and I certainly walk softer than you do."

" _Really_ ," he said, as if she had just expressed an ability to walk on water. "…softer than a lycan and without scuff." He kneeled beside the left wall, avoiding any marked sections of wall. "Perhaps you can explain the rest of your abilities after you establish why 'undeserving prisoner' means I can say things like 'no scuffing' and expect obedience instead of backtalk." In spite of his light tone, his rebuke was veering towards the structure he often used when dealing with generally stupid, non-compliant soldiers.

The corner of her lips twitched, but she said nothing more. Abandoning her previous direction, she turned around and took a few tentative steps back from where she came, coming to a stand-still upon reaching the outer door of the conservatory. Finding the handle, she turned away in another direction, her arms outstretched. Four steps and she was back on the path. And then contrary to his orders, she found the line of it and stepped into the snow _._  "What if Rena were to escort me outside once a week?"

"No good." With his hands, he began to trace a line, taking a whiff of the snow left and right. "I trust my den…but times being what they are, I prefer you in your quarters."  _Ha. There it was._ Feeling a shiver as a gust of wind moved through his coat, he began to dig. After a moment, he pulled up a stone the size of his fist, revealing a key frozen into the hard, icy ground below.

" _Times_ being what they are, Lyosha," she repeated, crouching rather ungracefully in the snow, her hands reaching forward to touch the ground. Sifting the white through her fingers as if trying to even an already even landscape. "…you are suggesting a situation worse than a den of lycans?"

He scoffed. "Try murder…"

She aimed her blindfold to where his voice was. "In the den?"

"On the streets."  _There was no purpose in beating around the bush._  "…and I rather think, Reinette, if there  _had_  been a den murder, you'd have been the first to know." With one of his nails, he began to dig the iron key out of its icy berth.

"And  _just_  as I was getting comfortable," she said sarcastically. She let the last of the snow plop to the ground. "Was it an exile?"

"Yes."

"A man?"

He looked up.  _She was asking a lot of questions._ Seeing her across from him in the snow, he had the rather uncomfortable sensation of being stalked…even hunted. At that point, the key came loose. Beneath he found the single leaf of tobacco that had led him to the hiding place. He dug that up as well and then carefully replaced the stone. Only then did he answer, his fist resting on his knee as he crouched. "The details are disturbing, Reinette…would you rather not speak of something else?"

 _The stalking sensation died._  As if she were focused on other things now, she shook her head as if it did not matter one way or the other. "Only tell me if you would," she said.

"Right."  _She asked for it._ With the key in hand, he stood up, watching her from across the garden.  _The information would do little for her, but it helped to go over facts that had already been distributed around the den. At this point, everyone knew._ "The victim's name was Mary Parker. 5'6", 140 pounds, eighty years old and hailing from South London. She worked the second and fourth shifts and had a reputation as a thief, a liar, and a whore. The last person to see her alive was her friend and confidante, Sarah Henderson. She maintains that they were working the usual boundaries of Whitechapel when the murder occurred. At the moment, we have three witnesses to corroborate her story and…"

"Is Kolya one of them?"

"No _,"_ he said, making no attempt to disguise the faint note of provocation in his voice _. He built her a boudoir, she gave him backtalk. Kolya kissed her hand, and it was please, lycan-master, tell me if Kolya's face is intact. She could dream all she liked, but the vampire would be gone before summer._ "…he was not involved."

"Are you certain?"

He rolled his eyes. _It was clear she was still holding a candle for the man._  She was leaning forward for this new scrap of information and far be it from him to disappoint her. "Well, now that you mention it," he said in a bored voice. "…his resemblance to Sarah Henderson is frightfully uncanny. Perhaps he gave us the slip while posing as a fat middle-aged chamber-maid."

"Oh you know what I mean…"  _He almost got a smile this time._ Her fingers dipped in the snow again and she flung it in his general direction. "…his past is a burden, and because of it, you would suspect him."

Rising from his duck, he took a deep breath of fresh air, exhaling very slowly.  _Her aim was rather good._   _Particularly for someone that was blindfolded._  "We suspect everyone…but as far as our investigation can deduce, Kolya had nothing to do with the crime."

_According to Raze, the man had gone on for twenty minutes about how pleased he was that a former companion had come to see him in his new home. He had not even noticed the Blood-sweep going through the den. It was a practice often used for seeking out a guilty partisan, the most long-serving member of an Exile's Quarter given the task of tasting the blood of all. The method was not full-proof, but in the case of a murder, they expected such a recent and likely vivid memory to stand out. As it was, the memories of all, including Kolya, appeared to be clean._

He dusted snow off his shirt, realising for the first time that his coat was open. When the temperature lowered, he often forgot he was wearing certain articles of clothing in an inappropriate manner. He looked up again. "As a matter of fact, he's doing quite well. Proving his  _worth_ , as they say."

Reinette did not seem convinced. "Are you  _sure_ he is doing well?"

"Does it matter?"

Now he knew he sounded exasperated. And with cause. _Three times she had brought up the question of Kolya. Given his history, yes, it was his nature to suspect the man, but it was beyond aggravating when Reinette worried over him like some orphan child in need of a maternal figure._ _Besides, whether by charm or appearance, Exile's Quarter had welcomed Kolya with open arms. The man pulled more than his weight, and somehow managed to have an alibi for every hour of the night. And the day.  
_

She frowned as if he had said something daft…and then gathered her coat around her like a woman folding up her secrets into a fan. "I merely think," she said, sounding very mysterious."…he is as new to this city as I am, Lyosha. We are one and the same in that sense."

"You mean like you and  _Dantès_ ," he muttered under his breath…and then ducked as another handful of snow flew through the air. He dusted that off as well. _He still thought she was taking an unnecessary interest in the life of Kolya._ He sniffed the air and then looked down at the key in his hand.

"I'm not sure what else to tell you," he said, turning the key between his fingers. "…but all sources give him an alibi, so take comfort in that." _His fingers were still bored._

He started playing with the key, throwing and catching it with the flat of his palm. "On the flip side," he added, watching the key and unwittingly chewing his lip with fascination as he threw it higher and higher. "…all sources point to one of my men as the culprit."

 _Too high. A gust of wind took the key,_ _but his eyes never left it._ Unconcerned, he watched it make a descent over ten feet from where he was standing…but then a split-second before it touched the ground, he lunged, the iron piece in his hand before he could even blink _._

 _Sometimes it was_ … _maddening being in this place. Living the life of the mortal Alexander_ _Kerr_ _when he knew he could run faster than most of the horses he bet upon_. He looked at Reinette and then slowly walked over to where she was crouching. "So you understand," he said, as if he had not just been playing in the snow. "…I cannot let you wander the grounds until the matter is closed?"

Blindfolded, she had seen none of his antics. "Pssh," she said. She looked very small all of a sudden, the snow dusting the foot of her skirt."I have nowhere to wander to, Lyosha." Blunt as if such things were set in stone, her blindfold looking towards his face.

"Nowhere to wander and no bridges to burn," he finished, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet.  _The hand felt dangerous…like he could break it if he stopped paying attention. Such a tiny thing, bony to the point that her veins had more substance than she did._ With that thought, he switched his grip to her wrist again.

Leading her to the conservatory, he put the key in the lock and turned it, pushing the door open by a crack. _There were no flowers on this outer layer and as a result, the temperature was still quite cool._  Behind him, Reinette smelled hesitant, her pulse beating faster.  _She was getting nervous for some reason._ Drawing her through, he shut the door behind them, locked it and then paused on the stone landing, peering through the glass of a second door, finding his way with his eyes before he took another step.  _The poppies had no scent. The lavender had too much. Which way to go?_

_The answer lay with the ninety-pound ingrate standing behind him._

He looked over his shoulder. She was holding her hands beneath the arms of her coat, craning her head around, the bird that had no sense of the cage until it was shut behind her.  _She had not expected this._ "Are you still cold," he asked, making no reference to where they were.  _It would be warmer in the inner conservatory, but that would spoil the gift._

She shook her head, her hands quickly finding their way into her pockets. And then with resolve, she asked… "Are you locking me in the catacombs?" He could tell she was breathing faster. "Is that why we are here?" _Breathing faster and scared._

 _They had already set down the rules for that deal. So why, after an evening of amiable discussion and a quiet stroll through the garden, did she still expect him to lock her up without any warning—without any food or clothing after he had said ten minutes? The answer was ugly, but it_ _gave him some insight into how she must view him on a daily basis_ _. First, she was under the impression that kindness must come with cruelty…whether it was him or Tanis. And second, she still thought he was off his rocker on laudanum. Even now. Granted he had been off his rocker that night on the ship_ …

_…but really, she should know him better by now._

_Except that too made him pause. She should not know him better by now. They should not even be in each others' company anymore. But he had never been good at following rules. Even his own._ Having decided her first question was not worth answering, he changed the subject to one that suited him more. "So why do you hate lavender," he asked as if she had not spoken.  _Better to ask up front…it would save him the trouble of trial and error. And Whitby would thank him for not ripping a sample off every plant in the conservatory.  
_

"I just…do not…like it," she said softly. Carefully as if it had just occurred to her now that there was a cat sitting in the cage with her.  _The scent of her nerves had doubled, and she seemed to take it as proof of his instability that her question had fallen on deaf ears._ She took a step back towards the door, her hand seeking out the handle. "Perhaps we should…" She let go of the handle. Useless without the key. "…perhaps we should go back," she suggested.

_Go back?_

_They had only just arrived._

"For blood, woman, we are nowhere near the catacombs."  _There. That ought to calm her down. Roses maybe. Women loved roses. But then he had assumed women loved lavender._  Still pondering the question, he continued to speak, almost musing the words to himself. "…and do not be concerned over time. You bargained for ten minutes on the outside, but in theory, we are now standing inside. So answer the question."

"I think you must be enjoying this," she said. Some of the tension had left her frame. "You make up rules and then break them whenever it suits you." She had the air of someone listening for a retort.

_There was none._

She exhaled. "Oh very well." Having let go of the handle, she wrinkled her nose, now seeking the walls on either side of her, judging the dimensions by touch rather than sight. "If you must know…" she began in her voice of moralistic instruction _._  "…lavender is like a mask for filth." Her hands went back in her pockets as soon as she found the alcove to be tiny. "People use it when they want to hide something. Coarse smells. Immorality. You expect cleanliness, but are more likely to find three thousand sweating mortals ladling themselves in greasy water." She sniffed. "You may think I do not remember, Lyosha, but even your carving cannot erase  _that_  memory."

Whatever he had been about to say had just dried up in his throat.  _Only a week ago, in that tunnel in Paris, he had accused her of being unable to remember as far back as the fall of Rome. He had made that jibe as if he had been there…but in all honesty, he had not. He was not that old. And by all accounts, neither was she.  
_

_He found his voice._

"So you  _hate_  bathing," he said with a cursory glance.  _Many years ago, he remembered Markus on a whim commanding the coven to take up the practice of public bathing. Lavender to scent the baths as the Romans had done. As a boy, he had realised_ _it to be an extravagant gesture, but one of remembrance rather than imitation. In point of fact…when he was a boy, the Roman baths had not been in existence for almost three hundred years._ "…and I suppose I put you through hell by making you wash."

"Not particularly," she replied. Her voice was monotonous. She had not noticed the pause before his reply. "…I just like clean water."

"As opposed to fresh air," he said, observing her from across the small alcove.  _Blood take it. Could she be older than him? No. It was impossible. Bloodseers were all hunted down _in the final days of the purge;_ the training of women only a desperate measure before the end. She had to be younger…but then whose memory was that? A memory of Rome from someone far older than she was…a vampire changed in the first days of Markus' rule perhaps? Could _ _Áris be that vampire?_  He spoke into the silence, trying to focus his conversation while his mind worked so furiously. "For interest, Reinette, if you had to choose a flower…what would it be?"

She shrugged, looking up to the ceiling as if she could see the sky. "I cannot think of anything," she said.

 _As if that was a problem. He was the lycan-master. He had worked with difficult long enough. Usually with claws, but in this case, words would have to do._ He looked behind him, picking a name at random. " _Roses?"_

"Smell of dead people."

He picked another. " _Lilies?_ "

"Dead flesh."

"Hyacinth?"

"Formerly  _crying_  pieces of dead flesh."

"Brilliant," he said without much gusto, feeling like someone forced to walk the streets of London's West End with a two-year-old that wanted scum and nothing else for her birthday.  _Speaking of children, hyacinth was known as baby's breath in Greece. And if 'crying pieces of dead flesh' was any clue, then_ _Reinette was severely lacking in the maternal gene. Refreshing being around a woman whose first thought did not revolve around getting an heir out of the lycan-master._ "How…about…" He looked over his shoulder, picking another plant at random. "…calendulas?"

She seemed to be losing interest. "I want to go back," she said.

"Pick one."  _Her age might have thrown him, but he was not letting her off the hook. She was going to smile at least once before sunrise. "_ And consider it a gift. We have the seeds …so we may as well plant them for spring. You might even be able to walk among them."  _He was half-lying. The seeds were full-fledged flowers_ … _but he wanted her to think there was nothing but just the hope of a plant_ _through the glass door_ _._

"I will probably have been murdered by spring," she said bluntly, turning away from the door.

"You will  _not_ have been murdered…"  _This would be so much easier if he could just wring her neck_. "…so if it pleases you, could you just  _humour_ me this one time?"

She scowled behind the blindfold. "So I can what?" She was becoming increasingly cold, her voice growing from monotone boredom to sharp disregard. "Dream about it? Sniff the last remnants of _dead_  ground in the first days of  _dead_  winter. Thank you, Lyosha, what an  _unforgettable_  experience."

"Can you…"  _Bad form. He was yelling._  He forced himself to a lower volume. "… _can you not see_ ," he finished quietly. "…that I am offering you something without a bargain?"

She said nothing.

_She did not see._

He breathed, starting to get aggravated by the air clouding in front of his lips.  _They might be sheltered from the outside, but it was still cold in this outer layer of the conservatory. They had been out here for twenty minutes already._ "Reinette," he said finally, closing his eyes, running both hands over his face before he could open them again.  _It was just easier to threaten._ "…I  _comprehend_ that you have difficulty with this concept, but just…" He smiled tightly. "…take the gift or I swear you will never see the inside of a garden again."

 _That made an impression._  Her lips tightened. "Aconitum," she said.

" _Aconitum_ ," he repeated, nodding to himself, trying his utmost not to bark.  _It made sense after all. She was troublesome. Insufferable at times. Prone to spite. He should be used to it by now. Or should he?_ "How about…" He inhaled slowly, taking his anger in hand and leaning back against one of the wooden posts flanking the glass door. "…how about you pick something that is  _not_ poisonous, Reinette?"

"You asked."

"Alright…new rules. No poisonous plants. You answer the question, we  _pretend_  to be civilised…or you can watch the bastard in me freeze until sunrise, which I believe…" He looked up through the glass ceiling at the sky. "…gives  _you_  about two hours."

He heard a sound building in her throat.  _Frustration_. And then, as if she would just as soon choke on the word as say it. "Crocus…" she said. The second word had to be dragged from her throat. "…sativus," she finished. And then almost with a hiss, she said, "…may I go back to my prison now?"

_Crocus sativus._

He paused before answering, his anger already ebbing away now that he had received an answer.  _The saffron flower, cultivated as far back as the Minoans and certainly through the Roman Empire. Once the price of gold, i_ _t was now a common spice that Whitby had taken pains to cultivate in the conservatory._

"Why not," he muttered tersely in reply, effectively bringing himself back to the present. "…of course it was to be a smile for fresh air, Reinette, but forgive me, you must be tired." Removing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the first door and took her wrist, leading her outside again. "Five days into your imprisonment..." He let go of her wrist, exhaling the words in Latin as though he had only just remembered them. "...and I keep forgetting some roses are not meant to bloom in the morning." _  
_

She stopped…

…and then turned  _very_  slowly on her heel, both her claws and her teeth growing as if she could not yet decide whether she wanted to rip out his tongue or his eyes first.  _The exact proverb was 'Pick roses in the morning, lest they fade; like a woman aging quickly,' but he had a feeling she'd get the general gist._ Before the insults could fly, he backed into the conservatory and opened the inner door by a crack, slipping through without a sound.  _It was quite cruel really. By the sound of things outside, she was castigating him and he was not even there to appreciate it._

Inside, the air was warm enough that his skin began to tingle from the temperature change. The plants were receiving a similar reaction. In which case, Whitby might attack him in the morning, though he was willing to risk it for the sake of one flower.  _They would only bloom for a few weeks anyway._ Familiar with the layout, he located his prize in a matter of seconds and plucked one of the blossoms.  _Reinette was still talking to him outside. And by talking, he meant furiously garnishing her words with a language he could not follow. Sami, Norwegian, Danish…one of those. He suspected there was swearing involved._

Leaving the conservatory, he shut the first and then the second door, locking the latter behind. Watching as her insults dried up the moment she heard the door shut, her head turning to search for the sound.  _And again, he could not help it. His mind doing the work for him. He knew she was old. He understood that_ … _but it was as if he was seeing her as she might have been. The shadows playing across the face of this veiled, blindfolded woman who would not back down._ The blindfold following his footsteps as he left the key in the same spot he had found it, the tobacco below and the rock above.

She flinched in a surprise when he touched her arm. "You left me," she said, frowning in realisation.

"Only for a moment," he replied. Standing next to her and looking down to his right. "…though perhaps a good one considering some of the words coming out of your mouth."

"You  _insulted_  me."

"I compared you to a faded rose," he said simply, as though all was fair in this strange, miniature war he had invested himself in.

A flushed red crept into her cheeks, but she did not look the slightest bit sorry. "You cannot force me to smile," she said. Her jaw was locked again.

"Then I concede," he said dismissively, as though she had driven him to the end of his rope. By instinct, his eyes were looking instead up to the moon, the snow dancing across her face as well. _While Reinette stood her ground, she, on the other hand, was starting to retreat. Well past four in the morning_ …

_…the sun would be rising in an hour._

Before she could protest, he took hold of her wrist, forcing it behind her back and proceeding to lead her back towards the house, keeping the sprig still protected within his palm. The snow was getting worse.  _The change in their surroundings seeming to strip the woman of her ability to keep balance. As if balance were something that came and went depending on what her body could remember._  Twice she almost fell, but he steadied her, again stopping the blossom from falling with his free hand _._

Back at the house, they passed through the back door, shaking off the snow, wiping their boots on the landing.  _She did it because he did it._ But when they reached the stairs, she politely, but very firmly, removed her wrist from his grip and started to walk on her own. It seemed she trusted the banister more than she did him.  _Again, it was understandable. Not the most flattering of sentiments, but understandable._

At the top of the stairs, Rena was waiting for them on the landing. He signalled her to hold her position and for the life of him, not knowing why, he walked Reinette to her room. The door opening and his steps growing faster, his movements silent. As she walked forward, he aimed for the desk and opened one of the drawers. The lady still fumbling with the knots of her blindfold, as he picked up  _The Count of Monte Cristo_  and opened its pages, finding the section she'd been reading by the small piece of thread she used as a place-marker. Beside the thread, he placed the crocus and shut the book, returning it to its place in the desk.

And then he left.

… _o…o…o…_

Reinette turned around as the door shut. She had just untied the last knot, the light from the grate causing her to squint. "Lyosha," she said, holding her hand up to her eyes, looking around.  _The room was empty. He had gone without so much as a goodnight._ She was still standing there when Rena opened the door, locked it and then walked past her to the adjoining room. That door shut as well and then she was truly alone.

_Again._

Frowning, she removed her gloves and then her boots one by one. She hung up her coat and stepped out of her dress. There were no other layers to remove. _She had not mentioned it to Lucian, but she had been freezing the entire time outside. She had been missing all of her petticoats. Her stockings. Her corset. Trust a lycan to think that two layers were all that was necessary for dressing for inclement weather. All in all, it had been a strangely disappointing outing. She had not seen the stars. He had not seen her smile…and yet she had been outside._   _She should be grateful for that._

Feeling thoughtful, she walked into the bathroom and found her nightgown on the floor. It was too filthy to wear. Naked, she returned to her bedroom and pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapping herself up in it and taking a seat by the fire.  _She was not tired._

And then before she could stop it, the thought cropped up.  _Why did he have to leave so abruptly? He could have said goodbye. Or even… 'thank you, Reinette. You have been most insufferable this evening.' She knew what he thought of her. And it was not that she truly wanted him to stay. They had had their discussion. They had their spats. A walk. That strange business about the seeds. Very strange,_ she decided, thinking back.  _In fact, the very idea of a lycan-master knowing anything about gardening was ludicrous. It was like him reading botany. Strange. Unexpected._

Feeling more in her element now that she was criticising him in her mind, she got to her feet and walked to the desk, opening the drawer and finding her book again.  _Whatever he said, she could rely on the sympathy of the Count of Monte Cristo. She was just like him. Locked up in here. Alone._ Pulling the blanket with her, she tottered over to one of the chairs and took a seat, flipping the book open in front of her and then sitting up as something fell from its pages.  _Something purple_. Her fingers reached to the ground and plucked what appeared to be…

…a flower. The petals soft as if there were still attached to a plant. Waterstains on the pages, like snow falling from the inside of a cold stem that had been so recently outside. Hesitantly, she brought the flower up to her nose…and sniffed.

 _Crocus sativus,_ she thought, looking at it in wonder.

_The saffron flower._

… _o…o…o…_

Forty-five minutes later, when Rena opened the door, she was surprised to see Reinette no longer standing in a snow-dusted dress. Instead, the woman was stark naked under a blanket, sitting by the fire with a book in her hand.  _And to her wonder, she was_ _…_ _smiling. She smelled content. Pleased. Very odd._ Still unable to muster anything short of ennui on her face, Rena passed the vampire, heading into the bathroom to pick up the nightgown, the chemise, and the linens, taking note of the dirty water.  _She would have to empty that by hand tomorrow._ She returned to the bedroom and stood opposite the vampire, the linens still in hand.

Reinette looked up…and then, as if she had forgotten her vow of silence, she spoke. "Yes?"

 _Again very strange._  Rena folded her arms. She did not trust the vampire's French, so in Latin, she said, "Lyosha has instructed me to inform you that you will begin your lessons in language as of tomorrow night. Your tutor will be in this room at eight o' clock sharp and will visit you for one hour every night until you have learned…"

"…English," Reinette finished with a sharp shake of her head. She sounded exasperated. "…always the English." And then to herself, she muttered, "What does it matter if I speak his language?"

Rena did not smile, but in a way, she understood.  _In her youth, she had been forced by Lucian to learn languages. And as a twelve year old French girl, she had been most insistent on her opinion that it was not exactly love that fell between the two nations of France and England._  "C'est le ton qui fait la musique," she said with a shrug, and then in Latin. "It is…" She paused, thinking hard for the translation and then continued. "…the tone that makes the music." Still not satisfied, she tried again. "That is to say… not  _what_  you say, but how you say it, you understand?"

Reinette closed her book with a nod. "Yes," she said, eying Rena as if she had said something very odd.

_Perhaps it was odd._

_Usually such things remained behind the drug. Quotes. Conversation. The notion that at one time, she had been more than just a muted soldier lacking the capacity to sympathise or question anything. But it was still too soon for them to speak of that._ She got to her feet and walked around Reinette, heading for her own bedroom. But before she could open her door, she heard the vampire say in a voice that was uncommonly sedate. "Thank you, Rena. Goodnight."  _It felt like someone holding their hand out, unsure of whether they were taking a wrong step by offering this truce._

She paused with her hand on the door.  _She hated vampires. It sometimes made her wonder if Lucian had been thinking of this when he asked her to become the woman's caretaker._  "Goodnight," she replied and then closed the door behind her, leaving the linens in the corner of her room. She still had one more errand to take care of this night.  _The tutor. Rather than go himself, Lucian had scribbled something on a piece of paper and instructed her to give it to a lycan she would find living on the third level of the den. A hermit that spent very little time on the outside. A runt. But one that Lucian trusted._ She looked down at the paper.

_His name was Singe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> 'Most of the horses he bet upon' - referring to Derby Day, that weekend in the summer dedicated to thoroughbred horse-racing. It takes place at the Epsom Derby, which apparently has been hosting official races for over two hundred years.
> 
> Ne pereant lege mane rosas; cito virgo senescit - Latin proverb meaning 'Pick roses in the morning, lest they fade; a maiden soon grows old.'
> 
> C'est le ton qui fait la musique - It's the tone that makes the music (Meaning: It's not what you say but how you say it.)


	30. Spoil the Child

**Chapter XXX: Spoil the Child**

_The East Wing. 7:09 pm._

When Reinette woke the next night, all trace of lavender had been removed from her room, a bowl of vinegar placed in each corner and beside her bed to eliminate the scent. She sat up too quickly and the need for blood went to her head.  _The Count of Monte Cristo_ was open on her lap. Picking up the book, she brought it close to her face and breathed once before closing it.  _She had not imagined it. The petals of saffron were still nestled between its pages and another memory had been added to her blood. It was the first flower she had smelled after they left the North, her mentor taking her south for a gathering of seers. She remembered waking at night, her nose fascinated by this scent that had come on board. Saffron-growers transporting their goods from an island in the Mediterranean. A good memory. Warm._

More awake now, she set the book on her bedside table and gathered the blanket around her shoulders, dragging it from the bed with her, looking to her pendant-watch for the time.  _Twenty after seven_. She had forty minutes until the tutor arrived. On her desk, there was a covered tray bearing her morning meal, an embossed porcelain bowl filled with blood. Her chemise, nightgown, and drawers were clean and folded, the lack of staining a testament to the presence of bleach in the household. The impression that Rena had been there moments before, the clothes only recently ironed, the blood still steaming when she sat down to break her fast. Washing her hands afterwards, she donned the undergarments without suffering a single red smudge. From the wardrobe, she selected a navy blue skirt with a small bustle, pairing it with an off-white shirt, high in the neck with the pendant-watch laid over top. She laced up her boots, deciding it would present a strong front for a lycan tutor if she were seen in full attire. She then walked to the bathroom, kneeling by the bronze basin and looking purposefully into her reflection.

 _The sight did not bolster her confidence._ Nothing had changed. Her face was as wrinkled as the night she had left that monastery. Her cheeks were sunken, her neck a gathering of tendons and sinew. Only her hair showed some of the time that had passed, each strand falling almost two inches from where it grew from her scalp.  _Faster than a human, but slower than a vampire in the prime of life. It would be a few more months before she would be pleased with its length._ Holding her hand up to her forehead, she smoothed the strands back…and then forward again. They would not fall as they should. Compelled to make some kind of choice, she picked up the ivory comb and smoothed as much as she could forward, drawing a part above her right eye. For the final touch, she pinned her veil behind her ears and stood, turning away from the basin. More confident now that she was in shadow again. Returning to the bedroom, she took a seat, the pendant-watch in hand, content to wait until this mystery tutor arrived.

… _o…o…o…_

_The London Den. Lower Levels. 7:49 pm._

At precisely that time, Lucian was rising from his chair, standing before a crowd of exactly one hundred and eleven souls, including children. They were the residents of the London Den, those who lived beneath the surface of the Kerr estate. Soldiers, runts, and children. Most of them dressed as labourers, about a third fashioned as upper-middle class and gentry. What would seem as a class difference was only clothing in this hall, for all were considered equal in a Gathering of the People. All could bring their concerns to the table. He raised a hand, drawing them into silence, banishing the immediate outcry that had met his declaration of Reinette's presence in the den.

"I recognise your concern," he said quietly, forcing them to lean in. "…however, I can assure you, our guest poses little threat to our way of life. She is an exile, and by her cooperation, she represents a tool by which we can increase our hold in this continuing war."  _He had rehearsed that line in front of the mirror…twice before dusk._

A brash voice piped up from the back. "And what if she's a spy?"

Beside him, Raze's head whipped like a bullet in the direction of the voice _._  "You will give your name and rank before you question the lycan-master,  _soldier_ ," Raze growled. Feeling he could go either way on the necessity of that one, Lucian waited for the faceless voice to pluck up some courage.  _Sometimes he imagined Raze took more delight in rules and decorum than he let on. But that was the crook of den politics, Lucian, its twisted head, and Raze, the almighty stick that would throttle you if respect was not given where it was due._

There was a discomfited silence before the voice decided to bite the bullet. "Avery, sir." The lycan came forward so that his face came into the light, though his moustache took most of the glow. He was one of only three soldiers that had kept to uniform despite the dictate that this was an off-duty affair. "Lance-Corporal Avery of the 2nd Battalion, Line Infantry. I feel it is my duty to speak out, sir…" He sounded rather affected by his own rank. "…without proper interrogation, how can we to be certain she is not a spy?" He made 'proper interrogation' sound like a cure to all ills.

Lucian did not budge. "She has been interrogated in an official manner," he stated, adding the word 'official' for the sake of Avery's unwavering belief in the power of the system.  _It would seem one good thing had come out of their Parisian detour, after all_. "Next question."

A hand went up near the front. A lycan woman with enough scars on her face to warrant a rank. "Grace Marsden, sir. I work in the scullery." She managed a small bob of curtsy, forcing the girl holding her hand to do the same. "…sir, if I may, will there be more of her kind entering the den?"

Instantly, two dozen voices jumped into the fray, half of them yelling " _No more coven-breeders_ ," the other half growling, " _Shut up, you mongrels_." Before Lucian could even raise a hand, Raze had snapped the disarray in two. " _Silence_ ," the lycan roared. All obeyed, though Grace Marsden now looked regretful over having asked her question.  _The onslaught was starting. The soothing that would be required before Reinette could ever call this den her home. Tolerance for the greater good._

He spoke into the silence. "Need I remind you," he said.  _How many times had he reminded them since the day Christos had left._ "…we are all descended from the same line, the same blood…" His contempt showing, he found the group of lycans who dared to use the word 'c _oven-breeders.'_ "…and disregarding your beliefs, I will not abide with  _bigotry_  in this den. Not when it is the refuge of our enemies." He was memorising their faces.  _All of them members of the Lycan Conservative party, the majority of them dressed as gentry. Two of them regular guests in the upstairs dining hall_ — _a mistake he would remedy in future._

He looked down upon Grace Marsden again. "Grace," he said, calling the den's attention back to the source of their cries. "There will be no other vampires entering the den." And with a gesture, he sought the crowd's displeasure again. "Next question."

A bearded man near the front. "William McNally, sir. Wainwright." His voice was gruff enough to sand wood. "Is it true drink-fighting's been banned?" About two dozen burly men suddenly became very interested in politics, craning their necks over the crowd, six of their mouths sagging open, waiting for the answer.

"Yes…" Lucian said, casting an unyielding eye over the crowd. "… _any_  combat under the influence has henceforth been abolished within the confines of this den. Now I will ask you to  _stick_  to the matter at hand, McNally. Next question."

Another hand. This time from the group that had yelled  _'shut up, you mongrels.'_   _A sign that they were of the Liberals._ Their speaker ducked his head before opening his mouth. "James Sewell, sir." One of the few names that Lucian remembered, though he had never spoken to the man. "I…we…" James gestured to himself and eight others standing behind him. "…the lads and I, we do the roster call in Exile's Quarter, and we were wondering, sir…will this have any effect on the statute of communal living?"

"Communal living," Lucian repeated, recalling the rules.  _The Statute of Communal Living, 1842, Section XII. 'Any lycan living in communion with a vampire must make their home in Exile's Quarter.' The terms were harsh, but the Horde would have it no other way; and despite his past, he agreed with them._ "…how would you suggest this have any bearing on the statute, James?"

James looked uncomfortable, though he seemed to take heart from the lycans standing behind him . "Well, this vampire …" he said. "…she's a prisoner, right, but she gets to live here…" His forehead lowered in a frown, gaining a firmness that had not been there "…but my Isabelle…well, she's been with me longer than half these people been lycan, but we still live in Exile's Quarter, see?"

_That was the source of discord. Those few vampires that had done more than choose the lycan side. More often not, they were called 'coven-breeders' by the lycan conservatives. Fools to use that word while he was standing in the room…but then, many believed he had changed his mind about vampire-lycan relations after the uprising. It did not help that he entertained known Conservatives in his dining hall._

"I understand your frustration, James…" The silence in the room became absolute as the majority of lycans began studying him for some sign of past woes or weakness. He did not avoid their gaze, adding a piece of silver to his own. "…however, the statute remains in place."  _He felt for these men, he truly did, but there was nothing he could do for them at this time._   _Weakness was not a choice in his line of work._ He crossed arms behind his back. "The majority of the Horde, time and again, has made their feelings known, and for the sake of their security, I have upheld their decision."  _So many decisions he upheld despite his own wants. It was the price one paid for adding the word 'legislature' to their political discourse._ "In any case," he said. "…I doubt your wife would sacrifice her freedom for the imprisonment she would receive here. Her life would become one of constant servitude, forever isolated from her own people. Her secrets would belong to the Horde."

Curiosity now entered the silence.  _Constant servitude. Isolation. How would she be serving the Horde? What secrets?_ People began to mill upon each other, whispers growing, the questions sweeping from mouth and ear, but before another hand could go up, a short lycan behind James stepped forward, starting to speak out of turn. A youngling, barely twenty by lycan years, but he was determined to be heard.

"No, wait," he yelled, shrugging James' arm off with a scowl. "…it has to be said." Rather than just his alpha, he was speaking to the entire Gathering. "I been married six months now…I'm not saying it's a bad place to live, but them other exiles, they never treat 'er right for bein' with a lycan…" Another outbreak of voices, but the youngling was determined to be heard. Scowling over their heads, he grunted, " _I ain't finished_  …" The voices quieted enough, and still glaring at them, he cleared his throat. "… _and since_  that murder, God's honest truth, I think she'd be better off livin' with them  _mongrels_  than where she ain't wanted."

For the third time, the entire Gathering erupted, lycans growling at each other, the upper-middle class yelling "How dare you," while the men behind James yelled, "We have rights!" Raze did not even use words this time. Eyes silver, the black lycan's face began to lengthen, the growl coming from the throat of a full-fledged beast rather than a man. Only a half-Change, but enough to the silence the entire hall. Lucian could feel a scowl attaching itself to his face. Years of experience told him it was that scowl more than the half-beast that exacerbated the scent of shame on the air. _Shame. They knew he was disgusted by any who could not maintain discipline in the face of war._

Again he spoke into the silence, maintaining the same tone of voice, knowing how it would unnerve them. "You have rights, but until the Horde votes otherwise, the statute  _remains_."  _And let pity flee from his sight._ He let his gaze rest on the youngling. "I am sorry, Owen…but you and your wife must continue to make your home in Exile's Quarter." Rather than argue further, the youngling frowned in confusion…and then closed his mouth, taken aback that the lycan-master knew his name without introduction.  _It would probably stun him then to know that Lucian had memorised the names of every lycan-vampire coupling in Exile's Quarter. None of the unions had ever produced children_.  _Owen Atherton and his wife, Lydia. They were the last on the list._  "In light of the murder," he continued. "…we are doing all in our power to track down the culprits. Until such time, keep to the rules of curfew and safety."  _Lycan culture was bred upon danger, every situation having a series of rules attached to it. 'Curfew and safety' had twenty-four, among them, watching the back of others and restricting one's outdoor movements to a six-hour window._

"As for the rest of you …" Narrowing his eyes, he examined the crowd. The men, the women, the children…a few lycan-pups standing with their mouths open, as though it were a treat to see Raze in a half-Change.  _Which in theory it was since very few had mastered that trick._ "…you have given me much to think on, but little to change my decisions." He turned, hands clasped behind his back as he sought the end of this meeting. "Until the Gathering of the Horde, this vampire will be an imprisoned member of this household…" He faced them again quite suddenly, on the verge of pointing a finger at the Conservatives. "…and you would do well to remember that we do not  _murder_  members of this household. We keep to our statutes. We adhere to the rules laid down for our protection."  _Our protection…but where did the exiles fit when the Horde had not fully accepted them._ Keeping his thoughts from his face, he signalled the end of the address. "Keep to the shadows, survive the war."

Men, women, and children…whoever knew the drill bowed their heads, repeating the words in solemn communion. "Keep to the shadows, survive the war," they intoned.

 _Meeting adjourned_ , he thought, stalking for the exit before their words had even echoed. No one dared question or stand in his way.  _All the better. He had a multitude of things to do this evening…going over the day-brief with Raze, the details of tomorrow's meeting with Christos. First and foremost, a two hour tête-à-tête with his advisors on the state of France. Unlikely they would have anything new to say, but vital that he appear to be taking every syllable of their advice into consideration. Little did they know, he had made this evening's vital decision just under three hours ago. Benoit had sent a dispatch requesting a personal address before the Gathering of the Horde…and though Auguste would not be pleased, he had granted the lycan's request. It was the first move on the board, the first sign of that French merge that they all wished for, but could not force._

… _o…o…o…_

_The East Wing. 8:00pm._

Reinette heard a knock on the door and stood, folding her hands in front of her, drawing herself up to look tall.  _She was a vampire. She had no reason to fear this other lycan. And for that matter, it was just…a language. Just a simple language._  "Come in," she said in what she hoped would be a clear and confident voice. On the contrary, she sounded scratchy and old.

The door opened and instead of a tutor, she saw Rena.  _Rena who never knocked._ The lycan woman met her eyes for a split second and then continued into the room, her arms laden with books. An age later, she was followed by a pale, meagre man walking quite unenthusiastically through the door.  _This was her lycan tutor…yet his stature fought with every image she had ever had regarding this animal race._ His face pock-marked, his eyes beady behind a pair of round spectacles. His hair was receding, tied back in a tail, the strands holding an oily sheen. Peering around the room, he gave the impression of one used to ducking through holes, his arms held very close to his body, his shoulders slouched. One of his eyebrows was raised in scepticism; it took her a moment to categorise this as permanent.

When he spoke, his words were aimed at Rena…in English she presumed. A lean voice, thinner than Raze or Lucian, something that she believed he did not use often _._  At Rena's answer, his eyes rolled in unmasked exasperation before settling upon her as a target.  _Whatever Lucian had offered this man for tutoring her, she suspected it was not enough._ He continued to stare at her over his glasses, his shoulders growing more hunched before he took one of the seats. The one closest to the fire.

"Open your book," he said in Russian.  _There. She heard an accent… like Sabine when she spoke Russian. Was he Austrian then?_

She looked to Rena, but the woman was seated on the floor, playing with the iron-ring puzzle. The man was no longer watching her and he did not seem to care if she obeyed him or not, though he did look to the pocket-watch on his coat, scratched metal on raggedy wool. Yet Lucian was wealthy…surely he would have offered this man enough to buy a proper coat? Feeling more curious than anything else now, she obeyed, picking up the book and sitting in the opposite chair.

"Read," he said.

She opened the book and looked down. The letters were gibberish. "I cannot," she replied, still intrigued enough by his feeble appearance that she did not even question his first instruction, that she should read a language she did not know.

He exhaled and got up. "Perhaps we do this at the desk then."

How this would help if they did it at the desk, she did not know, but she got up, waiting for him to pass before she did. He seemed to find this worthy of skepticism as well. Seeing that he was making no move, she pursed her lips and then walked to the desk, taking a seat, startled when he plunked the book down in front of her.  _He could still move faster than most humans._ Before he could tell her to read again, she felt her mouth open. Rudeness flowing out of her mouth of its own accord. "Are you a lycan?"

"No, I am an  _amoeba_ ," he said pointedly, flipping a few pages and then pointing at one of the words. "We start with the greetings. I dictate and you repeat." He walked to the chair and pulled it to the desk, so he could sit nearby, his scrunched forehead telling her how pleased he was to be teaching her. She was still observing him.  _Were lycans born this small…or could he have been changed? Would he not be too weak to be changed?_

"But who  _are_  you," she asked.  _There was a rhythm to his speech like listening to hills._

He was not listening to her question _._  "First in Russian, we say,  _Zdra-stvooy-tye_." His Russian was far better than Sabine's had been. "…and in English, we say,  _Hello." Huh-lo_. That one she had heard.  _Somewhere_.

"But who…"

"Repeat," he said, pointing at the book.

She frowned, and then made the word. "Huh-lo." It did not sound the way he had said it. In fact, it did not sound like anything at all. "Huh-lo," she tried again.

"Good enough. Next. In Russian, we say  _dobraye utra_ …" He was not looking at her, just intoning the words.  _If his Russian was anything to go by, she would have an Austrian accent by the end of the night._  "…in English, we say,  _Good morning_."

"Gud…" She touched her tongue to her lips. ' _God morgen' was good morning in Norwegian. But this one ended differently._ "…what was the second part?"

" _Morning_."

"Mor-nin-guh." She was rolling her tongue too much.  _Gud morninguh._ "Gud mor-nin-guh."

And so it began. Word after word, sentence after sentence. Every few seconds, the lycan making her repeat everything she had learned, dashing through from start to finish, picking words at random for her to say on the first few pages. They paused so she could retrieve pen and paper from the desk, writing the words phonetically for memory's sake. After the first quarter of an hour, she became used to the feeling…learning by rote, listening by rote, repeating as she had once done for her mentor… _repeating the words of higher learning._

… _o…o…o…_

_Outside the Library. 8:37pm._

On his way to collect one of the journals he had kept in Paris, Lucian exhaled, feeling the muscles in his neck twitching. _Blood. Fuck. Damn._ He turned.  _He had been this close to stepping through the library doors. This close._ "Yes, Mrs. Fulligan, what is it?"

Mrs. Fulligan was about twenty paces away from him, but had called him at a run. "Sir, I…" She bent over, putting her hand to her mouth, catching her breath and then stood upright, pointing behind her. "…I think, there is a problem, sir."

" _With?"_

"The Lady, sir. She and the little girl…they ran  _right_  past me." She swallowed, shaking her head over what seemed a nightmare rather than a memory. "I believe they are…"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Fulligan." Confident, he put a hand on the library door again. "I am fully aware of their behaviour, only I did not find the matter serious enough to warrant your attention. Jacqueline has asked to spend more time with Sabine, and I have given my consent as of this evening. Now unless they are trying to  _murder_  one another, I think there is no cause for dismay…"

"But sir, that is…" A few grey strands of the woman's hair were starting to fly, an expression of how serious she found the matter. "…what I am  _trying_  to tell you."

"…that Jacqueline, in addition to domestic tyranny, now requires the head of your lycan charge." Feeling he understood the stem of her dismay, he took a step closer so they could level this out in quiet.  _The hall was empty_.  _His French advisors were waiting in the study. So far as he knew, there was no one in the library. No servants in sight._  "In all seriousness, Bess…" he said, lowering his voice in the most convincing manner that he possessed. "…don't you think you're overreacting by just a tick?"

"Begging your pardon,  _sir_ , but I am not."

 _Always 'sir.' Eight years of calling him Luka in Germany and now she was pretending it did not happen. In which case, he could do the same._ "Very well,  _Mrs._  Fulligan," he said, emphasising the missus.  _She was the one that left him. She was the one that walked out in the middle of the night and then showed up three years later with some blighter of a husband, no offence to Henry now that he was old._ Turning back to the library, he pushed against the door, dropping that sentiment before it could rise up.  _If she wanted to forget, then fine. Join the queue._ "…I thank you for your diligence as a  _housekeeper_. Now if you would be so kind, I'd ask that you send Thomas after them…"

"Sir…" There was an angry flush growing in her cheeks. "…this is  _not_  a matter for Thomas. Your Lady was chasing my charge into the  _restricted_  section and by y _our_  instructions, I was to inform you as soon as anything of that nature happened…" Whether it was taking care of his mistress for the past three months or being confronted with his face for the past forty years, she looked like she was about to cry. "…and it  _has_." With an uncharacteristic sound of exasperation, she opened her mouth, shook her head, and then stalked away, holding her skirts as though ploughing through mud.

She did not turn around.

 _And there goes another_ one, he thought, letting his hand fall back from the door and looking after the retreating woman with some annoyance. _Blood. Fuck. Damn. The only words that could properly express how he was feeling at this moment._ He turned in the direction of the East Wing.

… _o…o…o…_

_The East Wing. 8:27pm._

_Fuck higher learning,_ thought Reinette _. English sounded like the rotten garbling of people trying to cut their tongues out._ She was bored, her pendant-watch resting open in her hand.  _Almost forty-five minutes had passed, and_  t _he tutor was still going. He did not seem to care that she had stopped repeating. He was here to do his job and at the end of an hour, he was leaving._ She was about to put her head down on the book, when they were both shaken from their stupor.

_Knock._

And then…

_Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!_

From the door, this very quick and very persistent stream of knocks caught their attention; someone was trying their utmost to be heard while being quiet. On the floor, Rena seemed to uncurl. She sniffed, and then swiftly took the key from her belt, stepping forward to unlock the door. What met them when she did could be described in a single word:  _desperate_.

The handle had barely turned before Sabine rushed into the room, her hands scrunched around what appeared to be a torn, silken dressing gown. The girl was breathing fast like a hare that had just escaped from some ungainly beast, her eyes too wide, her teeth starting to lose their point on the edge of safety. "Rena," she said, collapsing into the woman's arms. Rena neither held nor pushed the girl away. Sabine did not seem to notice. There were angry tears in her eyes…and with a fervency that bridged on fire, she took Rena's hand, pointed at the door and cried, "Ich hasse sie!"

_Ich hasse sie._

From her seat, Reinette folded her arms over the wooden back of the chair, listening with a frown on her face.  _German._   _They were words she had never heard before_  …but from the tears, ' _ich', 'hasse',_  and _'sie_ ' were things that Sabine felt very strongly about. Never one to show emotion, Rena continued to observe the child's declaration with the same tilted head she would use to observe mouse-droppings. The tutor seemed to be studying a new amoeba that had entered the room…and by his expression, it did not matter what the amoeba did because the whole world would still disintegrate in a million years.

As if hearing this, the girl moaned, dropping Rena's hand and starting to pace the room. Like a hunted mouse searching for its hole, she travelled to the wardrobe, the fire-grate, the bathroom, the corners of the bedroom…wherever she went, nothing seemed to hold refuge. Tired of watching this frenzied pace, Reinette closed her book with a small clap, immediately drawing the attention of all parties in the room. Sabine did not immediately come to her. She first looked to the book and then the door.  _A decision in mind_ …and then, almost running, the girl came to her side, taking her hand up as she had done with Rena.

"She is  _horrible_ ," she said in Russian. "Horrible. I tried to leave, but she would not let me. She wanted to eat, she wanted to talk, she wanted to comb my  _hair_ ," she said, closing her eyes as though the entire world should know this was an unholy indiscretion. Her eyes opened wide. "You will not let her eat me, Reinette?" She shook her head in pleading. "You will not let her?"

"I…" Reinette glanced up and was shocked to see Rena give a small nod of encouragement. And then a shake of the head to indicate what answer she should give.  _Since when did Rena care for children?_  "…err…no," she finished. "We will not let her eat you."

"But she is coming…" Sabine moaned. Finally, the girl's source of desperation was coming to light. "She is coming  _now_. I snatched her gown off and got away, but she will find me." She put her hand up to her hair, starting to pace. "I need to hide. I need to hide." She looked to Rena. "Here." She thrust the dressing gown at Rena and then headed for Reinette's bed, crawling behind the drapes and concealing herself from sight.  _Desperation made children do desperate things._

Perhaps observing this, the tutor wrinkled his nose. "I think this is my cue to leave," he said, casting a disapproving eye at the drapes. He pulled his coat closer and stood, heading for the door. "I will return tomorrow night. Good-bye." He said the last in English, and thinking hard, she made a final effort.

"Uhm…"  _Horrible language_. "…gud-bye."

The door shut. In the same moment, Rena locked it and began to gather the language books, putting them away in one of the drawers. Still in her chair, Reinette watched and for the first time began to wonder what thoughts lay in the mind of Rena.  _One who heated her meals, did her laundry, filled her baths._   _Silent but dependable when given orders_.  _Orders that meant it was becoming harder to hate Rena._  "Do you…"  _It was official. Clearly hell had frozen over for she was engaging Rena in conversation._ Standing up, she picked up the last book and helped put it away, trying to sound relaxed."…do you think this woman will come looking for her?"

"Yes." Trust Rena not to be worried that they were harbouring a fugitive; this child-terrorising, possibly naked woman was about to close in upon them any second, and all they had were books…and claws, but she had a feeling lycan dens did not take well to vampires using any form of weaponry.

"And she is as horrible as Sabine says?"

Behind them, the drapes resounded with a firm affirmation. Closing the last drawer, Rena leaned against the table. "I have not met her," she said, her expression dull.  _Hard to hate, but easy to hiss over how little Rena spoke. How much coercion was required in exchange for answers._

"Is she the governess," she asked, leaning against the other side of the table and boldly curious over what kind of woman Lucian would allow to keep charge over his unclaimed offspring. That is to say, she who happened to be grey-eyed with a penchant for staring.

"No…" Rena paused. "She is his…" But her eyes darted to the door before she finished. She was listening…and seemed to make up her mind about what she was hearing. "…she is coming," she said simply.

_She is coming._

_It was like waiting for an attack._

Two minutes later, there was a resounding crash against the door, the sound making her jump. A terrible noise followed by the grunting call of what sounded like a very put-out English beast. The name "Sabine" was shrieked several times into the keyhole.  _Sabine was not willing to be found._ The child's face appeared from behind the drapes, and without a sound, she stepped onto the carpet and crawled beneath the bed, hiding herself behind the bed-skirt. This beast…this woman must have tracked one of either the gown or the girl for she was not leaving from the door…

"Do we open it," Reinette murmured, staring at the single piece of wood protecting them from harm.

Rena shrugged. "Eventually," she said in the same tone of voice.

Instantly, the banging became more insistent. The woman had heard Rena and by this fact, appeared to be convinced now that Sabine was hiding in the room. The door, once so strong, was now starting to give violent groans with every hit, the power of this woman seeming to grow with her volume. A temper tantrum from one with the strength to back it up. Watching with very little expression, Rena, after the passage of one minute, once again removed the key from her belt and stepped to the door. In English, she said something very quietly and the moment she did, the banging on the door stopped…and then, fulfilling whatever promise she had given with those words, Rena unlocked the door. And instead of a beast, there entered…

…a lady.

A very tart-looking young lady. Beautiful to be sure, but… _tart_. Perhaps it was the scowl on her face or the fact that her hair had been rifled with. Short, flaxen curls and perhaps one of the largest bosoms ever seen. She was wearing another dressing-gown. That did not stop her from walking up to Rena and snatching the stolen one out of hand. She looked, prowling around the room and then snarled something _._ Out of the snarl, Reinette was able to pull out a single word.  _Where._ _Whoever this woman was, she wanted to know where Sabine was._

Bland in voice, Rena still must have been thinking of her, for she replied in French, a language she could understand fairly well. "You would be Jacqueline?"

The Golden Tart swivelled on her heel. "Where is she," the lady snarled, speaking what Reinette was surprised to hear as perfect French, identical to Rena in its swiftness and accent. "…the little girl." She turned, looking towards the bed. There was a ferocious glow in her eye. "Her scent is all over, but I  _know_  she is in here. Is it the wardrobe?" She stalked to the wardrobe, opening it with a bang, her hands rifling through the hanging dresses, searching for a child hiding among them. She closed it, prowling to the corners of the room, following the scent. Entering the bathroom, she began peering in all the corners, seeming not to care that she was in a room not her own. A few seconds later, there was another shriek. She came out holding Lucian's comb.

" _Thief_ ," she declared, her eyes latching onto the only possible culprit in her mind.  _Of course, it would be the vampire._  Reinette felt the instinct to shrink, but before she took a step back, Rena took a step forward, standing firmly between the Golden Tart and herself.  _Protecting her?_  The Golden Tart was still raging. "…vampire  _thief_ , what are you doing with this?" She was looking between the two of them, over the shoulder of Rena, her eyes bulging at the fact that neither was answering her. "This comb belongs to…"

" _Jacqueline_."

A deep voice cutting through the higher one. All of their heads swivelled to the door. With a cry of relief, Sabine crawled out from under the bed and sprinted past the Golden Tart, coming to a stop behind the figure standing ominously in the doorway.  _Lucian._  Odd to see them both standing there, their eyes silver. The smaller one breathing fast, assurance on her face now that she had found her final hiding place.  _Jacqueline would not eat her as long as Lucian was present._ "This area is restricted," he said. He sounded very cold, very firm, like one who was not in the mood to hear arguments.

"That girl…" the Golden Tart began, but Lucian interrupted her.

"Was it not  _you_  that said you wanted more time with children, Jacqueline," he asked, taking a step into the room, his face coming into the light. "Did you not say, and I quote, I have to  _prepare_ myself for the idea?" He was looking increasingly merciless.

Reinette breathed.  _Keep talking, Jacqueline. Please keep talking,_ she thought, following Rena's lead and fastening her eyes on the ground, her ears drinking in the argument. Hoping to blood that he would stay preoccupied enough to continue speaking French in her hearing.  _Now she understood why it had taken Rena so long to leave that interrogation room in Paris._ _It was like…gold, witnessing Lucian in his anger and for once, not being on the receiving end. For surely, he would take this spoiled child down by a notch. She had to be a child. Seventeen, eighteen. How old was she? Who was she for that matter? Did she not see the trap she was building around herself?_

"Yes, but that  _child_ ," Jacqueline hissed, still having taken not a single step. "…needs a lesson in manners. She is rude, destructive, and  _disrespectful_." She flung the ruined dressing gown to the floor. "And I will not have it, Alexander. I will  _not_." She put her hands on her hip.

 _Oh blood,_ thought Reinette, wanting to roll her eyes like the tutor. ' _I will not have it, Alexander.' Well that explained everything. She had to be one of the dally-women…but how was 'Alexander' going to deal with her?_

Rather than deal at all, Lucian turned, looked down at Sabine and said something in English. Something very short.  _The show was over…at least for the ones who could understand French._ He did not look nearly so frightening, but there was the air of reprimand in his tone. Immediately, the girl nodded, backing away from the room, her eyes still trained on Jacqueline like prey keeping track of its hunter. Only when she passed out of sight did they hear her sprint off into the dark corridor. _Now,_ Reinette thought, almost eagerly.  _How would Jacqueline receive his displeasure?_

She saw him incline his head _…_ and then to her dismay, he stepped into the room and said something equally quiet in the ear of Jacqueline; something which by his tone hinted at things neither Rena nor herself wished to know as eavesdroppers.  _Where there had been a short reprimand for Sabine, there was only quiet seduction for Jacqueline._  A single touch of hair, and all the Golden tart's woes seemed to melt away, a fierce look of triumph now adhering itself to her face. Smiling, she handed the comb to him and turned her head once to sneer at them before leaving the room. The sound of her feet walking away, one who was so used to announcing her presence that she could no longer hide her passage.  _A scantily-clad woman…spoiled in every sense of the word._

With her departure, it was only the three of them left behind. Rena and herself leaning against the desk and Lucian standing by the door, his body half-inclined, a man on the point of leaving if not for the weighty shackle he had accidentally dropped in this room.  _Allegra had warned her, but it was one thing to hear the tale and another to see it in all its glory._

"That was Jacqueline," he said after a while. He sounded resigned, the tone of one who had little else to say. Or perhaps one who believed it was enough to say little to describe the natural disaster they had just witnessed _._ "I had not…" He seemed very interested in the grate. "…intended for you to meet her." He was speaking Russian. Perhaps for her benefit.

She prided herself in being able to say nothing at that moment.  _Surely it was the most awkward silence they had yet encountered._ Of course Rena had taken to examining the carpet, so that wasn't helping matters.  _Poor Rena who likely did not feel like speaking. Rena who had kept company with him in Paris._

Seeming not to care a whit whether Rena was alright, Lucian inhaled deeply. "At least she's  _dynamic_ ," he offered, almost to himself. Not trusting herself to speak, Reinette could only nod. Very uncertainly, she herself somewhat stunned by what she'd just seen. Dynamic was one word for it.  _Dynamic…vulgar…loud..._

Before the awkward silence could become insulting, he held out the comb. "I believe this is yours."

"Thank you," she said coolly, taking the comb and tossing it onto the desk behind her, making certain she was in line with Rena. __Rena whom he had chucked aside like a piece of meat. And how many others?__  She could feel her eyes growing stern. Like a storm brewing behind the veil. He might  _think_  this was his territory. He might  _think_  he could just parade his whores in front of Rena… _but i_ _f he had any sense, he'd realise the 'Thank you' was his cue to leave._

_She did not have to wait long.  
_

Eyeing the comb she had tossed aside, Lucian frowned, sniffed the air once…and then in the space of a few seconds, bid them good-night.  _As though ending on politeness could somehow wash away the air._  She heard his steps moving away, the door closing and Rena turning the key in sequence, putting the key back in her pocket. The hard-faced woman turned around to lean against the painted wood, her shoulders inclined to the floor as though she were tired. _Prisoner and warden trapped in the same room, and perhaps for this singular time, sharing the same thought._

"Actually I was thinking of the word  _whore_ ," Reinette muttered abruptly, taking off her veil and dropping it on the carpet. She needed air. She needed to speak freely, to say something about what had just happened.  _For how must it feel to be dropped from Lucian's bed?_   _How must Rena be feeling right now?_  Folding her hands together, she reconsidered the woman she had once called 'whore.'  _Rena who had stood in front of her, willing to protect her from that harpy._   _Rena who said not a single word of protest, even when Lucian was treating her like a carpet._ And then, before she could change her mind, she swallowed her pride and opened her mouth. "Are you alright," she asked.

Rena raised an eye. She had been staring at the carpet, but now she looked confused. "Why?"

 _Rena. Always so quiet._ "Well, in Paris…" Reinette found herself playing with her lip, wondering how painful this must be for the woman. "…I gathered that you and Lyosha were…" With her hands, she tried to indicate what they may or may not have been doing, but the moment she did, she saw Rena give the slightest shake of the head.  _Which meant…_ Her mouth dropped open. "You never…"

" _No_."

"Not once?"

"Of  _course_ not." The words came with a hint of a wrinkled nose, as though this were something that had never and  _would_ never happen. _Not even in the wildest dreams of God._

"And that  _thing_ we just saw…"

"His mistress."

"His _what?_ " Reinette gasped, her palm coming up to her face. _Not just a mistress. _Rena had used the words 'maîtresse-en-titre.'__ _It was a French term used to indicate the King's official mistress._ She did not pause to think over why her French education included words like 'kill, poison, whore, and official mistress.' "You mean to say, his favourite _?_ "

For a moment, a line near the edge of Rena's lips twitched. "His  _only_  mistress," she said. "For almost a year now."

"…but…" So many questions.  _Should she ask? How could she not?_  "…how  _old_ is she?"

To her disappointment, Rena paused on this information. _True, it was the most they had talked since the interrogation. Their status as warden and prisoner threatening to end this conversation._ But then it seemed even she could not keep such a delightful piece of marrow to herself. "She will be  _twenty_  tomorrow morning," the woman said softly.

" _Twenty_ ," Reinette exhaled with a pursed brow, trying to equate that number with the word 'mistress.'  _Almost twenty years ago, she had fallen into hibernation. Twenty years ago, Jacqueline had barely been a meeting of two minds._  "…she is…"  _How could Lucian stand being around that_ … _that…youth_ _? A man who had been alive for over a thousand years and he was dallying with a girl that was fifty times younger than him!_   _What words could describe her feelings?_   _Disappointment. Irritation. The feeling of_ _…_

_…_ _old age.  
_

_He was as old if not older than her, but his age did not show. He could dally with this girl because his face lied for his age. Whereas hers had taken to telling the truth. She was old._ She looked down at her feet. Leather boots, cracked at the edges… "…I think my  _shoes_ are older than she is," she said almost bitterly, feeling a mite useless. Putting a hand on the back of the ladies' chair, she dragged it back to the grate so it could sit beside its twin. Then she took one and held an indicating hand out to the other.  _At least they had two things in common now. Neither of them felt an affection for Jacqueline, and they were both stuck in this room._  "Will you sit," she said cordially.

Rena looked at the chair, but rather than take it, something approaching amusement drifted across her face. A very hard, very bland form of amusement…one which came and went very quickly in comparison to the slower pace of its carrier. She continued leaning against the door, and like the night before, she looked up as though thinking and then recited something, a lilting line of words that ended in a rhyme. At the end of the rhyme, she looked at Reinette in expectation.  _It seemed she was waiting to hear a reaction. A test before she would take that seat…_

 _…_ _but the words were in English._ Unable to understand, Reinette frowned, wondering what words could bring amusement to the face of a rock. "What did you say," she asked,

Rena smiled, already veering for the puzzle on the ground. She stepped forward, picked it up and started to arrange the rings, translating the words for Reinette as she did.  _It was an English children's rhyme, one which had to do with hearts and tarts and a King._  Reinette listened with a frown on her face. At the end of the rhyme, Rena explained the rhyme _…_

"That is to say _,_ " she said in French, arranging the puzzle with her tongue clamped in concentration. " _…_ if Lyosha is the King _…_ " She looked up from the puzzle and looked very directly at Reinette. "…what does that make his  _spoiled_ mistress?"

Reinette squinted in thought, continuing to frown, going over the elements of the rhyme.  _There was the King. The Knave. The tarts._  And then she felt something approaching spasms in her stomach. An emotion setting in before she could contain herself, the frown slipping away, replaced by peals of laughter ringing through the East Wing. _Rena had made a joke. A satirical one at that._ _Lucian was the King…and his mistress was a Spoiled Tart._

In the midst of her laughter, she heard Rena sit down in the chair across from her.  _As though she had passed the test by being able to laugh._ The hard-faced woman leaned forward, drawing a deck of cards out of her pocket.  _Probably a common item in lycan dens if they all seemed to carry them on their persons._

She held up the deck. "Do you want to play a game of  _Piquet_ ," she said without expression, her amusement having dried up.  _Whether the amusement had dried, the tone still reminded her of Lucian when he was in a mood to barter. Like some part of him had subconsciously rubbed off on all these females he had put around her. Sabine, the precocious, staring child. Rena, the hard-faced warden. Allegra, the smirking fashion-plate. But was Lucian the only connection between them all?  
_

Still thinking on this, she answered the question. "I think I would rather play  _Hearts_."

Rena shook her head. " _Hearts_ is no good."  _Another Lucian-ism._  "We would need another player…"

"…and the King is busy," Reinette finished with a light smirk, getting up to pull her bedside table between their two chairs. The Count of Monte Cristo she placed on the bed, no longer feeling inclined towards the flower between the pages.  _He probably threw entire fields at his mistress…and they had seen how worthy she was of his attentions._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference:
> 
> The King of Hearts  
> Called for the tarts,  
> And beat the Knave full sore;  
> The Knave of Hearts  
> Brought back the tarts,  
> And vowed he'd steal no more.
> 
> Ich hasse sie. - I hate her (German)
> 
> Piquet - French game of cards for two. We will learn the details of the game later.


	31. A Match for a Candle

**Chapter XXXI: A Match for a Candle  
**

_Shaftesbury Avenue, Westminster, 11:21 pm. 18 November, 1899.  
_

The carriage was moving, the soot-covered bricks of the Lyric Theatre fading behind them.  _Fading but regrettably not forgotten_ , decided Lucian, staring with some discontent at the figure across from him _. Jacqueline. It was the final hour of her outing._ She was lounging in her furs, the scent of rose and jasmine idly drifting from her fan. Without question, perfect in form, graceful when fate opted to nurture rather than needle her sentiments. Her English refined, her French faultless…

"Did you like it," she asked, shifting her legs provocatively beneath her gown, enough glass-beaded silk to clothe all of Westminster. Her face was now partially obscured by a theatre programme, an elaborate printing with the words  _Florodora_  strewn across the cover. "…that ungainly woman called it 'risqué,' but I thought it was delightful. Elegant." Her curls were keeping time with her voice. "Only a spinster would say otherwise."

Unable to muster much else, he said, "Mm." Had he been listening, he might have stuck up for the spinster. He might have indicated that  _Florodora_  was the worst production he'd seen since Shakespeare's  _Henry the VIII_  burned down the Globe Theatre. But 'Mm' had satisfied Jacqueline on many an occasion, and reason told him it would suffice for one more.

"Like a can-can without legs," she purred. "…Florodora,  _Florodora_." With certainty, she flicked her fan at him, almost singing the words, her inability to scent out his mood bearing witness to how young she still was. "I adored every minute. The dinner, the theatre…" She was holding out her arm, touching the gift he had given her over dinner. "…the bracelet…"

His attention was drifting, his eyes meandering to the window on his left.  _The curtains were drawn, but he could see streetlights through the fabric. They were heading in the direction of Christian O'Riley's home. His prison, to be more accurate._

"It all ended so perfectly…"  _Jacqueline was not yet aware of their destination_ … She was going on and on, like roots on a rocky shore, a tree with little hope of survival. "…the singing, the dancing. I know Mother says there's no intellect in theatre, but the coordination of fifty people on a single stage must take some measure of…"

"Forty-four." The number had called him back to attention.  _Forty-four individuals on stage_ … _eight couples, sixteen labourers, twelve in the back. Coordination: a simple matter of separating members into groups, moving them across a field, like going to war without gunfire_ … _but Jacqueline had no concept of war_ … _no concept of loss._

She pursed her otherwise unblemished brow. "Pardon?"

 _Ironically, it was the reason she first attracted him_ … "There were forty-four," he said again, giving her no more than that.

"But…" She was struggling to appear perceptive. Finally, she gave up. "…fifty or forty-four, what does it matter?"

"Matter does not enter it…" He could hear the austerity in his voice.  _Wrong of him to be bitter over that play, that waste of his time_. "…I am only reflecting that if the number has no bearing, then it is questionable why it is the culmination of the last three hours."

 _The number ticking in his brain. Forty-four. Twenty-seven. Fourteen. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. The links on the bracelet, the turns of the street, the seconds as they passed. Forever counting with mounting precision, while the words of his mouth became enigmatic and vague_.

"I have some unexpected news," he said, changing the subject abruptly.  _No purpose to be had from explaining his thoughts to one who would be cursing his name within a week._ "…a visit."

Finally, something she could understand. "From whom?"

" _To_  whom." The correction was patronising, but it came with the territory. "An old friend of mine."

"How old?"

He gave a dry laugh. "Old enough to smell you before you think of coming."

The innuendo made her preen, the keen wunderkind for having spotted it. She smiled knowingly. "You mean like you," she said, her bosom choosing to sit up before she did.

"Not quite," he replied, reaching over to the side and picking up his top hat. Rarely used, it was the kind of article that longed to come out on Sundays. Grey with a black trim. "…our sense of smell is the only way we are alike at this point…" He paused. "…how shall I say it…"  _Prison_ , he mouthed.

"Oh," she said, no longer excited by the prospect. "What is his name?"

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

"Christian."

 _Christian O'Riley._ The man looked up, that singular moment allowing the past to creep up on them.  _Almost six hundred years ago, his name had been Xristo._  Pale skin that had not seen the sun in almost fifty years, the curls blackish, the face casting about for some light. "Back so soon," he said. There was a horrible stillness to his body, a composure lost upon eyes that would not stop moving.  _He was not rabid. Not yet._

Armed with only a tiny box, Lucian shut the door behind him. From the box, he shook out a match, lit one of the candles, and then discarded the box on the floor.  _Matches were hard to come by in this place._  "Three years was not long enough?"

"Not for you," Xristo replied, closing his eyes, taking a long whiff. They could both smell it.  _Jasmine. Rose. Jacqueline was waiting outside, but her perfume had followed._ He exhaled. "I hear she's young."

"Who isn't, these days…" Lucian walked deeper into the room, lighting candles as he went. It was a small and plainly decorated apartment, furnished with stools, chairs, and a scratched-up wooden table. Several skins and a pair of antlers pinned to the wall.  _The lycan prisons were built in the 1860s, deep underground as the sewage rose up around them. As there was only so much space, most of the inmates were harmless; any real threats were executed rather than set free. Xristo's past had given him some leeway in that respect. Alive, well, and locked up for the rest of his natural life._

The voice behind him became gruff. " _Well_?"

"Well,  _what_?" He turned.

"Why so grim?" The man's head was following him, a vicious grin arrayed upon his features. "Feeling guilty?"

"About the Horde locking a door?" Lucian took a seat, laying the candle upon the table.  _He needed both impatience and anger for this interrogation to go smoothly._  "Hardly."

"You were the final vote." It was an accusation.  _As if they had not discussed this fifty years ago and every decade that he had visited since then._

"Allegra was in charge of the Liberals, and they had a majority."  _The man was still not angry enough._ He added a jab for compensation."Besides, you think I should have supported another traitor?"

The lycan thundered to his feet, crossing the small room quickly. "I was  _never_  a traitor." A calloused hand thumped the table. "We were the exiles, not  _them_. They were vampires. Given half a chance, they'd run back to their coven with their fangs behind their lips."

"While you ran back to your Conservative interests…" He knew his voice was pleasant. "…and the way I remember it, they were looking for a new master to take the reins at the time. You did take the reins, didn't you?"

The man growled. "I never took that offer."

"You paid for it, Christian, which is why you're  _here_  and they're sunbathing in Cornwall." Without pause, he swung the question on the table, sweeping conversation into the realm of interrogation. "So why start on the exiles again?"

"What?" Instant confusion on the man's face and smell.  _Scent of confusion was often taken as innocence among the youth. Older lycans did not have that luxury_ … _and Xristo was very old._  "What are you talking about?"

"I am merely curious…" He started running a finger across the flame of the candle. "…why, on the very evening of my arrival, you start murdering exiles again. Tell me, was it a whim or a paltry stirring of the waters?"  _Once, long ago, he had believed in the notion of 'innocent until proven guilty.' Xristo had changed that.  
_

"I don't know what you're…" Xristo's eyes were silver now, popping out of his head, pouncing along the wall. "…you think it was the Blackmarks?"  _Since their rebellion had been quashed, Blackmarks had become the common name for Xristo's old followers; it was an expression of the scent cards they used to leave behind and the black mark they had earned for it. By no small chance, all of them were Conservatives. "_ You're saying they've started again?

Lucian shrugged, as if to say it was all the same to him. "You tell me, Christian."  _Last night's meeting had shown him the unrest brewing inside the London Den. The Liberals fearing for their rights, the Conservatives parading their intolerances. If Xristo or his Conservative followers were indeed planning another rebellion, then it was only appropriate that he planned accordingly. For example_ , _stabbing had always worked well in the past._

"I'm in prison." The smell was becoming nervous. Unhinged. Xristo was old enough to smell exactly how serious his situation was.  _Perhaps the man had finally come to some unlikely conclusion that being locked up was better than being dead._  "Even if something happened, how could I have anything to do with it?"

"You know, I had the same thought," Lucian murmured, still playing with the candle. "…except in hindsight, I think mine was a little more grilling and far less rhetorical." His fingers were starting to blacken. "So where shall we start?"  _It was like a dance_ …

"What makes you think…" Xristo's voice died as unblinking, Lucian tossed a scent-card across the table.  _It was the card Raze had brought him eight nights ago. Mary Parker_.  _Vampire scent. The bloody X drawn in blood. Two types of blood, the first that of the dead vampire, the second, the one who killed her._

"My apologies," Lucian said offhandedly, his hand going back into his pocket. "I must have thrown the wrong one." With the same black fingers, he tossed a second, far older card onto the table.  _It was the card that had helped convict Xristo fifty years ago._  "Don't get me wrong, Christian, I can barely tell the difference myself…but that is your blood on both cards, isn't it?"

"That…" Xristo's hand was starting to shake. He picked up the first scent card…and then the other, squinting at them, holding them up close. "…that's not…" He sniffed the stained canvas as Lucian had done eight days ago. "…I mean, it's my blood, but…that's not possible."

"According to your interpretation or mine?"  _He had learned to be pleasant until the very moment of resorting to physical force._

"Wait…" The lycan took the other chair, briefly holding his hands up, now keeping the light out of his eyes. "Just wait." Fifty years alone had left him with little loyalty to his former supporters. "There were vials. They kept vials of my blood around the city. After the trial, it didn't seem important."

"How many?"

The man was caving. "Just a few. Enough to leave scent-cards for when I was in hiding…it has to be old blood, I swear it."

 _It smelled of confession, but there was no way of knowing without proof._ "Who kept the vials and where?"

"A lycan. His name was Finnegan, but he hung himself a few nights before you ran us down. He organised where and when, but I'll wager the rest of the Blackmarks knew as well."

 _If we could all be so lucky._  "Do you recall the addresses?"

"Isle of Dogs. They burned every safehouse down, but it was on Poplar High Street. They all had cellars." The man was eyeing the locked door. "Someone must have retrieved the vials."

"Elaborate on ' _someone'_  if you will."

"You already have the list, don't you?" The gruffness was showing again. "Staford, McIlroy, Douglas, and Finnegan. If someone's murdering exiles, one of them's behind it, not me."

 _Staford was a banker. McIlroy was a stockbroker. Douglas was a sycophantic dandy who spent more money than Queen Victoria._ "You said Finnegan was dead."

"Check his family."

"He had none."

Xristo made a face. "There's your culprit then. Every upper-class bastard has a lower-class portrait hanging in the scullery." He sneered. "I'll bet junior took his mother's name. Gresden. Grinley. Something like that."

"If you are lying to me…"

"I'm not."

"You said that last time, O'Riley." Removing two vials from his breastpocket, Lucian rolled them across the table, the glass clinking over the marred surface. Xristo caught them and without protest, began to roll up one of his sleeves. Not bothering to fetch the bowl from one of the side-tables, one of his nails grew, the sharp end gouging into his flesh like a knife, his blood spilling onto the ground. The glass vials were filled, wiped against the sleeve and handed over. Satisfied, Lucian tapped the side of each one and then pocketed them. Returning both scent-cards to his waistcoat, he stood and walked about the room, snuffing each of the candles in his wake. About to see to the last when the man's gruff voice gave him reason to pause.  _Again._

"Kerr?"

"Speak fast, O'Riley." His hand was poised beside the flame, the heat passing across his fingers. He knew what was coming. He could hear the blood still dripping, though Xristo's flesh must have healed by now.  _Few realised how difficult it was to cut one's wrists permanently when you were as old as they were. God knew they both tried._

Xristo did not mince words.  _Xristo who let himself be swayed by envy, hatred, and what he believed to be the casualties of war._  "After we burned the coven, why did you choose Raze?"

 _Why_. _How many times did they have to go over this? Asking about choice when war had no place for it. Only strength. Survival. Five centuries ago, they burned Viktor's coven and in the coming days, three lycans had shown themselves worthy to be his second: Sabas, Xristo, and Raze. Of the three, Raze had been the strongest. It was as simple as that._

"Until next time," he said, snuffing the candle.  _Xristo hated the light anyway._

_Secretly, they all did.  
_

_o_ … _o_ … _o_

When he came down the stairs, Jacqueline was seated on the edge of the bench, waiting for him. She stood and took his arm, following obediently at his side. Rare the moment when she took his arm without argument or question. Rare when she took his breath away, almost making him regret what would happen when Allegra arrived in one week. The Devil herself was coming for one of her monumental visits, leaving Vienna tomorrow morning, traveling by train and then ship. Her primary reason was, of course, visiting Raze. Her secondary was annoying the hell out of the lycan-master. Her third was comforting Jacqueline, for as she had reminded him via correspondence through Raze (who still had no business showing the lycan-master his love letters)…

'… _comforting a slighted woman was right up her alley, and would they please mind waiting until she arrived before he broke the news to Jacqueline. Poor girl. Oh Raze, how she missed Raze. In addition, would they mind terribly if she used one of the extra bedrooms for storage space? She had planned to bring only four trunks, but how was she supposed to wear the entire spring collection without an adequate wardrobe? Forever yours, the Devil of Vienna.'_

 _Speaking of devils_ …

The cobblestones were wet when they reached outside, the thunder decrying their presence before the rain. The driver was not standing by the carriage. It took Lucian less than a second to stop in his path, already steering Jacqueline back towards the door they had just exited. It was the backend of what looked like a milliners' shop, the front for the lycan prisons. She began to fuss, but as her nose began to speak, she silenced, following his lead. The scent of blood was in the air. The cobblestones were red. Back inside, the guards on duty were given very quiet orders, twelve of them already sprinting out the back-end, scoping the empty alley for whatever culprit had left the blood. The body was to be left where it was, the dead woman lying beneath the carriage, the scent-card pinned to her breast. Her name was embroidered on her shirt-collar in tiny red stitches.  _Sarah Henderson._

_It seemed they would be taking a cab home._


	32. A Drop of Reassurance

**Chapter XXXII: A Drop of Reassurance**

_Outside the Lycan Prisons. 12:27 am._

It was a case of clouds and thunder without the rain, the driver notably absent, the horses silent, raised with the scent of blood so even a murder would not make them whicker. Lucian could see the hansom cab waiting at the far end of the street, one of the few that would linger regardless of time.  _Time and money swept aside by a higher order_ … _and Londoners often wondered why their cab-drivers looked so rough._  Careful not to let the grime touch his suit, he turned back to the task at hand, crouching down, sniffing the air beneath the tainted carriage, combing and discarding the various scents.  _Blood. Perfume. Axle-grease._   _Sodium hydroxide_.  _Melted flesh_. His eyes swept back to Sarah Henderson, the fat, middle-aged chambermaid whose dearest friend was the murdered Mary Parker.

Someone had propped her against the wheel, pouring lye over her neck, making it difficult to find a solid bite or claw mark. No sign that Henderson… _no, the victim_ … _better to call her the victim_. No sign that the victim had moved after its application, death occurring before the lye, the throat resembling nothing short of a charred waterfall spilling onto the street.  _While the shirt-collar_ … He frowned. The shirt-collar was only mildly stained, the red stitches readable. All of these clues adding up to something. Gingerly, he let his nails grow by an inch, unpinning the scent-card without disturbing the body.

_Three points._

_One,_  the killer wanted the body found, yet felt compelled to mask his or her bite.  _Two_ , the killer knew where the lycan prisons were and that he, the lycan-master, would be visiting at this precise hour.  _Three_ , and most peculiar of all, Sarah Henderson had not been wearing that dress when she died. Yet why, out of all these things, did that third point trouble his brain the most? Why should it bother him that the killer would redress his prey after pouring the lye?

"Sir?" A young, grimy-faced lycan guard was kneeling beside him, breathing too fast, his nerves starting to spike. The rest were checking the alleyways, searching for the driver, making certain no one else came this way. "Should…" He grimaced, the blond scruff on his chin not quite doing the trick.  _The boy had clearly lied about his age before joining this regiment. Probably lied his way across the Atlantic as well, judging by his accent._ "…should I just…keep holding it, sir?"

"Just keep holding it."  _Some needed a hard hand, others needed reassurance._ From his pocket, Lucian retrieved his last empty vial, holding it momentarily between his teeth.  _Always carry extras. He could have sworn he had a syringe in his left pocket_ …

"Like this?"

"Exactly like that," he remarked without looking, searching with both hands for that syringe. "…you're doing very well, soldier. Very dedicated." He was speaking around the vial.  _Not every lycan's dream, holding a cadaver's head while the lycan-master attempted to retrieve a sample. Ah._  He found the syringe in his outer pocket, the right rather than the left.

The guard swallowed, a touch more nervous now that his grip had been critiqued.  _No one wanted to fuck up in front of the lycan-master, least of all a sixteen-year old Irish-American pretending he was twenty._  "Thank you, sir."

Lucian did not bother to answer, concentrating on puncturing the exterior jugular vein. _Sample retrieved._   _Two vials in the right pocket. Sarah Henderson in the left. Jacqueline on her way home already._ He stood, having taken everything he needed from the scene. "You can put the head down."

"Yes, sir." There was a note of relief in the guard's voice, one for which he could not be blamed.  _Fine to be comfortable with hunting for food, killing for survival, hating those who hated you; but a murdered chambermaid with lye poured over her neck had nothing to do with survival. This was den-politics_ … _and they only needed to look at France to see what could happen when den politics spilled onto the streets. Utter chaos. The left wing versus the right. Even after a century, Benoit and Auguste were still at arms, though he hoped to change that in the next year._

Itching to be gone, Lucian started walking around the carriage.  _Another fifteen minutes until Raze arrived_ … _the man could carry an ox, but this time, his old friend would need some help getting the body back to the den._  "Is your superior inside?"

"He is, sir." The guard followed, wiping his hands on his shirt.

Lucian eyed the shirt without comment.  _Stupid really. By London rules, lycans were not allowed to leave their den or safe-zone with blood on their hands or clothing. The boy would either have to lose the shirt or find some manner of cleaning it._  "Does he have a name?"

"Pierce, sir." The guard seemed to think the name worth a trip down a memory vein. "Known him my whole life. We came over from Brooklyn two years ago when his mam said the dens were taking recruits. He got me my papers, sir."

He exhaled. "Thank you, soldier, that was eight seconds' worth of too much information." He tried to tame the barbs before he spoke a second time. It translated as a much shorter sentence. "Your name?"

"Taylor, sir. Benjamin Taylor."

"A word then, Taylor…" Lucian turned, giving a light thwack to the red smear on the boy's shirt. "You did well tonight, but that scruff on your chin makes you look younger, not older. You might also want to think about changing that shirt before you go home. Is that clear?"

Taylor let out a sheepish, yet gruff laugh. "Yeash…sure thing," he said, looking down at his shirt, the slight cockiness of another continent showing through. And then realising what he had just said, the guard coughed. "…I mean, yes, sir. I'll do that."

"Good," said Lucian, mildly amused despite keeping his emotions under wraps.  _Miscreant. Answering the lycan-master with 'Yeash_ … _sure thing.' No wonder the boy was still waiting on promotion._ And then, feeling remarkably generous over the next words to come out of his mouth, he added, "Now get Pierce. I have a job for you two."

At the word 'job', Taylor's mouth stretched into a toothy grin.  _Lycan-heaven._ Eagerly, he nodded and ran off without question.  _He probably hadn't seen this much action since he left Brooklyn._

Still shaking his head over the youth, Lucian opened the carriage door and stepped inside, retrieving Jacqueline's fan, the  _Florodora_  programme, and a few glass beads on the floor.  _Seven._ He counted them off twice, depositing them in his pocket and meticulously searching for anything else that might connect his mistress with the carriage.  _She still had a life ahead of her, something that ought not to be ruined by an avid deathdealer, seven beads, and a dead vampire. At least a third of the London deathdealers were under Kraven's greasy thumb, but one could never be too careful._

Through the open door, he could see Pierce returning, the blond youth followed by a sleek-haired brute of a soldier, the same one who had let him into the prison earlier that evening.  _Pierce and Taylor. It had an ambitiously crude ring about it._ And though he had little trust in Taylor's ability to walk the streets without smearing blood on his clothes, Pierce might have better luck keeping him out of trouble. All they had to do now was wait for Raze, and then the three of them would be riding in style.  _With a dead body, no less._

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The London Den. Two hours later._

Thunder had become a downpour, a constant battering of the windows. His shirt-collar was sticky, his coat unbuttoned, but there was no time to clean up. He had arrived home just fifteen minutes ago, checking first that Jacqueline was safe and then sprinting down four sets of stairs to haul Singe out of bed.  _Singe was their resident scientist._   _A man more intelligent than a small country and consequently, one of three people who could tell Lucian to please fuck off at three in the morning_ … _but not tonight._ They were now in the study, waiting on Sarah Henderson's remains, which as of two hours ago had begun crisscrossing London in the most out-of-sight manner.  _The carriage should arrive any minute now._

The clock was ticking. In the event that the body never arrived, there was still the sample perched on the desk before him.  _Sarah Henderson._  He still had the other two in his pocket, the earlier take of Christian's blood. One he had tasted on his way back to the den… _and nothing in the man's memories to suggest anything other than loneliness. Long hours in the dark, entire weeks gone without speaking._

_No time for guilt._

The other he had left for Reinette…though he was still debating whether it was wise to use her gift in this matter. It was not that he feared what she would see…only that, until her blood-sight had the full backing of the Horde, using her on a political prisoner might constitute as a violation of confidential information.  _Another matter that must be broached at the Gathering of the Horde_ …

A gloomy voice entered his musings.  _Singe_. The lycan was pacing the length of the room, his hands kneading themselves into a furor behind his back, smelling both melancholy and irritated. "If they are not here soon…"

"It's a  _cadaver_ , Singe." Lucian looked up briefly from his desk. "…it's moving as fast as it can."

Singe gave him a withering look. "If it was moving, Lucian, there would be no point to my being here…" Singe was a hermit. He did not see the point in sporting false names; after his first Change, he had spent the majority of his life in a laboratory and nothing changed down there, least of all names. Downstairs, his instruments were in place, the microscopes, the test-tubes, the burners. He had not had time to prepare a new blood-chart.  _To express his disgust over this, he was now speaking his native dialect_.

Lucian continued playing with the twenty wooden balls on his desk, all of them sized in different proportions. Each of them polished to a red sheen, the ripples in the grain reminding him of a desert. His days and nights filled with heat and sand and women who smelled of incense and cinnamon. Another one of the puzzles he had picked up on his travels. "So how did the lessons go yesterday?"

"Phhft." Singe made a dismissive noise, speaking reluctantly, gesturing with his left hand. "She has no background in English. She could not read. She kept asking me if I was lycan."

He almost winced, managing to drop seven of the wooden balls.  _Trust Reinette to open a conversation with an insult._ "I suspect she spoke without thinking," he said in the same breath, avoiding Singe's eye for the moment. Quickly changing the subject. "How much longer will it take by the way?" He considered the thirteen balls that remained on the table and then plucked one from the edge before it rolled. "I need her to speak it by May…"  _He needed her to make a good impression before the Gathering of the Horde. Like a hooded falcon on his arm. A creature of intellect and efficiency, one that could be used before returning it to a cage._

Singe made the same sound again. "I cannot pick numbers out of the air, Lucian. Obviously, she does not like it, but maybe if someone else were to take her training." He shrugged. "That lycan, Rena, for example…"

"No, old friend, I must be adamant about that." Lucian leaned back in his chair, gathering the seven missing balls from the floor. "Rena cannot take everything on her shoulders, and you in turn could stand a little more…" He placed each ball on the table in an exact line, so they would not roll. "…and besides. Without the tutoring, your best excuse for being  _outside_  your laboratory would be…"  _A long pause and nothing to fill it,_ he decided. His hand darting to the right again, catching one of the balls before it rolled.  _There seemed to be an unnecessary incline on his desk._  And then he frowned, contemplating Singe. "…sorry, what is it that you  _do_  besides science?"

"Food. On occasion." The lack of emotion suggested this was not a joke. Singe moved onto a more scientific topic. "When did you want me to examine her blood?"  _He was speaking of Reinette._

"As soon as possible." Lucian started rebuilding the pyramid, placing the pieces with little to no deliberation.  _Once you understood the trick, it was only a matter of seeing it through._  "She'll be sick tonight, but I'll get a sample tomorrow or the day after. Second priority after Sarah Henderson."

"Mmph." Singe nodded, storing the information away in his brain. He paced for another full minute before resuming the topic. "Do you still want my opinion?"

"Does it differ from my own?"

"It depends. She might be getting stronger, but such things lie on the inside. Hard to tell without ten years to watch her progress." And for a moment, his eyes lit up.  _A specimen to watch over ten years, categorising the changes. It was a dream come true._  "All the same," he shrugged, the silver dropping away to reveal reality. "…I should not speak until I have a first sample."

"I thought you just did."

Before Singe could reply, they heard the sound of cobblestones. Requiring more proof than sound, Singe stepped to the window and peered out the drapes, only then making a sound of approval. "Give me two hours," he said, the sight of that cadaver doing more for him than any lycan ever could.  _Notably, he was speaking standard German again._ He closed the drapes, took the vial on the desk and headed for the door.

Hearing the door close, Lucian very carefully placed the last ball on the top of the pyramid and then found himself reflecting on the finished puzzle.  _It was a lesson in what should and should not occur when building an empire._ _A single piece out of line, and the entire structure would collapse_. He stared. He pondered. And then without a hint of regret, he touched the lowest tier. As expected, the pyramid came crashing down, the wooden balls scattering across his desk and onto the carpet. Abandoning them, he pulled the second vial out of his pocket.  _While Singe was off playing with his cadaver, it was time to pay a visit to the East Wing._

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The East Wing. Ten minutes later._

His first warning was the echo. Like the cawing of a bird, rasping as though its lungs were too dry for humour. The sound making him freeze in the hallway, considering for the first time whether he had pushed Reinette too far. Whether he would open the door to see that she'd scratched her eyes out and was finding amusement in the amount of blood pooling at her feet.  _Not entirely impossible._ _  
_

He entered the room, already poised to act, only to find himself bearing witness to an altogether mundane activity. _No blood. No screaming._ Instead, he saw Rena and Reinette seated on the floor with a deck of cards scattered between them. One large, the other small. One staring blankly at her hand…and the other laughing on her back, as though she'd just been told that 'sleeping with a wolf's head beneath her pillow' was a cure for insomnia. A scent of exuberance in the air, reckless like a bird touching down upon water.

At the sound of the door closing behind him, she sat up. Staring at him for the time it took a hunter to shoot…and then quickly scrambling onto her knees, instinct causing her to reach for her veil. Deft with her fingers so that it was pinned before he had time to speak. Her eyes glowing beneath the black like jewels at the bottom of a deep sea. Every stitch of clothing in place as though she would never again allow modesty to give way to comfort.

"Lyosha." With her back straighter than a ship's mast, she picked up her cards again, seeming to chide him with his own name. "We did not expect you to drop by so soon." With a hand, she indicated the floor as though it were a gentleman's gambling hall and she its unlikely host. "Would you care to play a round with us?"

He scowled.  _Not the most ominous_   _of situations_. And considering the rest of his evening, he might even have answered; only something beyond the cards was causing her lips to twitch. The black failing to disguise the remnants of merriment, even as she began to organize her cards, clearly avoiding his eye. Her scent making him wary. The one too lively and the other too silent for his comfort.  _For Reinette did not laugh._ _Not without reason._

He eyed the problem. "Can I have a word with you outside?"

Rena immediately put her cards down, her scent wrapped in a thin layer of shame, like a dog wary of discipline. His decision to chide the one doing little to banish the sound of the other losing her composure again. The second peal of laughter giving him yet another reason to wonder if drink-fighting ought to be the only vice banned in the underground.

Impatient, he stepped over the cards, ignoring the protest of Reinette as he jerked Rena up by the arm. Directing the lycan woman towards the door and letting her veer a little closer to the wall. "Is she on something?" Small wonder he was choosing to speak German this evening.

"No, Lyosha." In spite of this answer, Rena was quite careful to keep her eyes on the floor. He jerked her chin up and she blinked.  _There. Rena had done something. He knew it. It was the same look she had given him that year in Dordogne. Fourteen-years-old with blood on her face,_ _and Madame Durand screaming that her dog had mysteriously vanished from the grounds._

His voice became  _very_  cold. "I swear, Rena, if you've been doping her…"

"No, I…" It was strange seeing a look from so long ago. Rena, for a moment, as she had been before her sons had died. Before they were even born. A soldier who had once been so good with children. "…I just told her a story."

"A story…"

"I was trying to follow your orders …"

 _She was trying to dig her way out._  He had a sudden flashback. _Only in the past, she had been trying to explain why walking a dog did not necessarily mean it would be alive afterwards._ Still he had not heard her speak this much in years. A fact that did nothing to stop his teeth from pulling back. "Go on," he said.  _After all, some lycans needed reassurance._

"Yes, Lyosha." She was blinking a lot, her accent becoming a little more French with every word. Immortals often forgot their phonetics as they were stressed."You ordered me to take care of her. Make her comfortable. And…" She gestured to the room. "…help her integrate with her surroundings."

"And what exactly do her surroundings have to do with laughter, Rena?" It was not so much laughter as the fact that Reinette was now wiping her eyes and judging by the volume, whatever had cause to amuse her was at its highest point whenever she looked at him.

"I…" Rena's voice was becoming tiny, confronted by the lycan who had raised her for at least seven of her childhood years. "…she wanted to know some history about…you, so we…we started to talk about…you."

"And…"

"That time…"

"When?"

"When you…" She breathed as though she needed to gather courage. Finally looking at the floor before saying it aloud. "…when you threw Madame Durand out of your bedroom window, except she…she knew that you do that sometimes, so before she slept, she tied herself to your…"

" _Thank you_ , Rena." He could feel his eyes turning to slits…and then by sheer force of will, he released her throat. "I  _recall_  the incident…" He took a step back, opening the door on her behalf, trying not to enunciate every word with his teeth. "Now if you would be so good, I would like you to wait…outside…at the other end of the hallway.  _Can_  you do that?"

It was not so much a question as a warning. Rena nodded very quickly, backing out of the door and closing it behind her. Leaving him to close his eyes again and then stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell she even knew that story.  _Two hundred years and it was still haunting him._ And yet how hard was it for Durand or any of them for that matter to understand? He might require their company for certain exploits, but when it came to his quarters, he slept alone and he woke alone. It was  _that_  simple.

Having less time for dignity than purpose, he turned around. All he could see of Reinette was the back of her head. Like a crown of silver, completely unconcerned by his brooding, her lungs still full of life despite the scent of death surrounding her person. "Are you done?"

Perhaps no longer caring if she lasted the year, she finished her laughter, wiped her eyes and then sat up, reaching her arms around her knees and staring at him with new-found interest. As though despite her underlying bigotry, the notion of him being jerked out a window because of a bloodforsaken rope made out of sheets was somehow riveting information. For once, choosing not to meet him with severity but a scent verging on warmth. "I don't think I'll ever be done with this one, Lyosha."

He shrugged. "And yet people  _do_  move on."

"Not if they're tied to things."

"I was half-asleep."

"Is  _that_  how you remember it?" she asked with a half-intrigued smirk.

"Look…" It was like having his dirty laundry hung up in this room.  _First Jacqueline, now this._ _"_ …as much as I enjoy talking about this, Reinette, I  _have_  come here on business."

"You've dropped by on business?" Her lips were starting to draw back again. "Here for the long haul?"

He sighed, pulling out his watch for the sake of eyeing it.  _It was moments like these when he truly sympathised with whoever was murdering these women._ "Puns are not as witty as you might imagine, Reinette," he said, holding a bored exterior as a contrast to her laughter before dragging one of the seats closer to the grate. The easiest way to stop something was to express disinterest. "…so I'll just wait here until you're finished, alright?"

 _That shut her up._ Not that it could silence her completely. She stood, dusting off her skirt and moving to stand in front of him. She had lost her veil again. "I think in spite of my face, Lyosha, you are still the eldest between us. An old, old man." She frowned, mocking his severity. "You have  _no_  sense of humour. Particularly when it comes to yourself…"

"I have a brilliant sense of humour, and you know it." Unfazed by her mockery, he leaned forward with the vial, like a guest offering a fine wine to his host. About to ask her favour only to be beaten to the request.

She dropped into the other seat, plucking it from his hand. "One, two or three drops." She was getting used to her place in the scheme. _Her purpose as a tool, though she was of no use officially, until such time as after the Gathering of the Horde. And that was only if they accepted her._

"Two."

"It brings the blood back up." By her tone, she was not saying ' _no_ '…merely pointing out what luxuries came with the service. "I am only reminding you."

"Sweet, Reinette, but I think Rena deserves a little clean-up duty tonight, don't you?" He was being callous, but for Reinette to do her job, he could not regret putting her through pain. That was just a fact. "So where shall we do it…" He smirked, unable to control himself when presented with such an opportunity. "Bathroom or bed?"

"Very droll…" She stood, heading for the bathroom, making no sign that she cared for his brilliant sense of humour now that he was showing it. The vial in her palm, her back straight. He followed, leaning against the door, watching as she kneeled on the floor, placing the ceramic washbasin in front of her. Preparing to be sick.  _He could not feel regret._ "Are you ready," she asked, shaking the vial.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"I was referring to your lack of pen. I thought you would want to write the words down." She was peering up at him. "I forget them after a while."

He shrugged her gaze off. "I listen. I remember. I write them down later." As was often the case, his next words were spoken without though. "What good is age if you can't even call up your most recent memories?"

Her lips tightened. "Yes, it really is quite pointless, Lyosha."

 _It occurred to him that she might not be agreeing with him._ Rather than speak, he took a casual whiff of her scent…and then immediately changed what he was about to say. "I was speaking in the context of…"

"No…" She put up her hand. "…you're right." Sarcastically, she counted the points off her fingers. "Wrinkles. Bones. Weakness. A mortal could outlive me at this point." She made a sound. Her tone had become a mite icy. "I'm not even sure why I'm still breathing."

 _Or talking_ , he thought, letting out a long breath before starting to examine the mud on his left boot.  _Far easier to read mud than the emotions of women._ _  
_

She gave him a withering look. _The second he had received that night._ The seconds continuing to pass until it became obvious that he was not about to contradict any of her observations. Only then wrenching the vial's cap off, like a witch forced to brew on command. Clearly tempted by the thought of cursing him, but instead, placing her finger against the rim, letting a drop of blood bead upon her flesh. Holding her finger above her mouth, allowing the drop to fall once…twice…before closing the vial quickly, passing it to his outstretched hand. Already swaying. Sick. Her eyes turning, her skin going pale as he had seen before. She began to speak…

" _He lives in the light. Lost without sun, burning hatred before morning. Take the door on the left, they breathe the air, he breathes the water. The door on the right, he breathes the air. He takes their blood. The candle g-goes_ … _out._ _"_ On the last word, she folded over, her hands on her stomach, coughing…

…but no blood.

A minute ticked by.  _He was still waiting for the blood to come back up._ Remaining by the door, Lucian crouched down, starting to chip off some of the dried mud.  _It was on the floor now_. Not wanting to leave a mess, he found a clean washcloth on her table, wet the tip and wiped the mud flakes into a neat pile. "Is that it?"

Her face rose from the floor, her eyes glinting off the mud and washcloth.  _He could have bathed in the fresh scent of her angst_. "Were you hoping for something a little more…" The sentence died.

She threw up.

Deciding it might be more polite to wait until she was finished, he started aimlessly picking at his other boot, trying to gauge how much longer. How much blood she could be holding in that small body of hers. It took about thirty seconds before she was done, her chin covered in red, wiping her lips against the thick, white cloth he gave her. The fact that it was her towel seemed to irritate her further.  _Perhaps he should have given her the washcloth instead._  "Are we done here," she said, throwing the red towel to the floor, forcing herself to her knees.

"Can you stand," he asked. Familiar with her brand of reply, he added, "…and don't tell me to fuck off. I'm being serious."

Her mouth had been open, but before the 'f' sound could become any clearer, she closed it and then exhaled, sitting back. She looked paler than usual, the nausea showing in her eyes. "No."

"Well, keep your hands to yourself and we'll have you back on your feet before you can say 'bastard.'" That prompted a weak pursing of the lips, but he had not really expected a smile at this point.  _Not really_. Not bothering to avoid the blood spatter, he scooped her up and headed for the bedroom, making a fine job of holding her a few inches away from his shirt.  _She was positively filthy. A bit like holding a soiled child._ He had no sympathy for Rena, but whoever was doing his laundry this week was going to hate him. Probably Langley.

He left her on the bed, now frowning over the carpet he had tracked blood over. "Anything else?"

" _Bastard_."

He touched his chest, taking note of the few drops of blood she had smeared on it. "Done. Myself aside, can I tempt you with anything else?"

She made a sound and then coughed, adding a little more red to the pillow. Her voice sounded very tired, but there was no hatred. Resignation in her smell, slight amusement and perhaps the first sense that she was starting to trust him. "Can I go outside again?"

"Not tonight."

Her eyes went to her book, but she did not reach for it. "Tomorrow?"

 _Honesty was the best course of action._  "Not for a long time, Reinette…" He picked up the Count of Monte Cristo and placed it near her hand. "…though I think you might have cause for some indoor excitement in about a week."  _Allegra would be pleased to see how well her protégé was doing_ …

"A week?" She tried to sit up. "What happens in a week?"

"Goodnight, Reinette."

"Lyosha, wait…" She was still struggling to sit up as he walked away, wasting energy, her voice getting weaker.  _Women could not stand being kept in the dark._ "…are you taking me somewhere? Can you not give me a hint?"

"Gladly," he said. "Seven letters. It starts with 'fuck off.' Any questions?" The expression on her face made him grin, though the hand signal might have been an insult. "Now get some sleep," he added, closing the door, always satisfied when leaving someone with less information than he had.  _And now for the kill._ With a growing light in his eye, he walked to the end of the hall. Rena was waiting conscientiously, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes demurely on the ground.

"Rena," he said, quite cheerfully as though he had just had the pleasure of noticing she was still here. He waited until she looked up and then inhaled, feeling remarkably good considering that someone had just died that evening.  _Just thinking about the amount of blood and mud waiting in that bathroom, not to mention the red sheets and towel, put a smile on his face. Instantly._  "I have a job for you."

At the word 'job,' Rena's face fell.

_Not lycan-heaven._


	33. An Inquiry of Blood Spatter

**Chapter XXXIII: An Inquiry of Blood Spatter**

_The next day_ …

_Exile's Quarter. Whitechapel. 19_ _th_ _November 1899._

It was two in the afternoon. Nikolai Proshkov Andreev was earning his keep, seated on the edge of a metal washbasin, his hand clamped around a rusty old lamp in need of fuel. There were sounds around him. Steam whistling, the clank and clatter of machinery, the hum of a society swallowed by trains. For just over a week now, he had lived in Exile's Quarter, helping where help was needed, doing what needed to be done. He shared a bunk with three others, his few possessions kept in a trunk without lock or key. Like all the exiles, he had been given a scent card, his name scrawled on the back, the material instilled with a scent for which he did not have the nose. _That scent was the only thing stopping the street-lycans from mauling his throat. Something that let him walk free on the streets of London_ …

… _it also made certain the Blackmarks knew exactly where to find him._ He heard footsteps entering the room. Cloth catch upon a nail, a curse before one of his visitors tore free and strode forward to stand behind him. Breathing down his neck the way she liked to do…

"Fancy yourself a killer, Andreev?" Her voice was non-descript. Monotone.

From farther below, a second voice piped up. "Yes. Fancy yourself a killer," the little one asked. High-pitched. _Like glass shattering into a hundred pieces on the floor. The entire room going up in flames after a match struck the oil._

The screw came loose. _He was awake. The dream had not happened yet. The match was still in his pocket._ He continued to hold the glass in place, his free arm too far to reach the floor. "Please," he said politely, smiling down at them. "…for you to call me Kolya…" Lacking the word, he pointed at the item he wanted. "…and for you to hand me…da. Yes," he nodded as the little one picked up the canister. She gave him the fuel. "Thank you," he said. _Paraffin oil._

The big one sneered in reply, pushing his tools off the basin edge. They clanked against the metal siding. "Did you hear what I said?"

"I hear, but I am not knowing what you mean." _In the dream, he had taken Sarah Henderson from behind. A naked woman smelling of blood-alcohol, rolls of fat beneath her chin, his fangs digging through the flesh._ "I work, I help. I am thinking this makes me friend, not criminal." Concerned to finish his work on time, he began pouring the paraffin into the lamp-hole.

"Mary Parker. Sarah Henderson," the big one whispered. "You murdered them. Left them on the street for the roster to find. But me and my lycans…we found 'em first. We own these streets. This is _our_ territory, and we know what goes in and what goes out." She smiled, showing her missing teeth. "…but I like _you_ , Andreev. Killin' your own kind don't faze you, does it? You a natural born talent…so I come here with a proposition." She tapped his cheek lightly, almost caressing it. "We keep your pretty face out of the mud…and in exchange, you give us a little income tax, if you know what I mean."

"There is no need for income tax," he said, pausing to think of the next word. _Vasili had taught him enough English._ "I have…how do you say it…strong alibi. They question me, but I have nothing to say. Nothing to remember for them."

"You have an _alibi_ because we _gave_ you one, Andreev. You might be able to fool the Blood-sweep …" She took hold of the scent-card around his neck and pulled, forcing him to lean down so his face was an inch from hers. Scars on her face. She smelled of soap. "…but you ain't foolin' me. You live because my Blackmarks let you live. One word from me, and your whole world comes crashin' down. No more clean-up. No more alibi. No more Exile's Quarter. You hear?" She let go of his scent-card and licked her teeth.

The lamp was full. He shrugged, screwing the cap back on, balancing the paraffin oil on his right leg. "So what is it you are wanting from me?"

"Just a finger," she said, holding up her hand and pointing. " _My_ finger. I point, you kill. Any vampire in Exile's Quarter, any time, any place. Leave the body. We take care of clean-up and any money you find, you gives over to us. "

He frowned, mulling it over. _He had killed over a hundred vampires in his lifetime. Council members, deathdealers, exiles, women, children_ … _all of their blood and memories milling with his own. It did not make a difference if he killed more than he planned_ … _only that he stayed true to his promise. The night before she left, she told him what would happen before she returned_ … _and she made him promise: Help her heal. Find and feed her the blood that she needed. And above all, for a half year, be loyal to Mr. Itzhak_ … _to Lucian._ …

_A promise made can never be broken._

"Da," he said to himself. "I do this for you, but I am needing something in return."

"We ain't giving you nothing, Andreev." The lycan spat to the side. "We take what we want and we…"

Before she could finish, he had knocked over the canister, the paraffin leaking onto the ground, coating the floor on which they stood. The match was out of his pocket, the tip of his fingers dry as he lit it, holding it above the floor. "We do business now."

"Holy mother of…" The large woman's mouth dropped open, her eyes gleaming off the flame. "…are you crazy? Tryin' to get us all killed!"

"Not crazy," he said. "…but I am needing something in return." The little one started to cry, but it was not something with which to concern himself. He did not do business in the same way that Vasili did. "When flame hits finger, I drop flame. We go up, business over." It was a centimeter from his finger.

"Business," the woman barked. "Now for God's sake, put it out!"

He blew on the match, taking another from the box, holding it ready to light. "Move and I light another one. You have access to the London Den?"

"Access?" She was looking behind her at the door. "I can get in, but…I'll tell you now, no Blood's getting' past security unless they're a prisoner." Stubborn, almost fearful panic entered her voice. "You a spy? You from the coven 'cause if you are, I ain't giving you a location. I might be a Blackmark, but that's about territory. Ain't giving you the Horde, and that's final…"

He shook his head. "Coven has been hunting me for many years now. I am not of coven." He indicated the ceiling above them. "You have heard of new exile living in Den, yes?"

She nodded grumpily, taking the little one's hand and pulling her close. "Yeah, I've heard of her."

"Good," he said. "…I will do as you say, but in half year, I am needing you to give her something from me." _A promise made can never be broken. Vasili had broken his promise. He betrayed her_ … _left her behind on the docks when she wanted so badly to flee with them. But Nikolai waited on the ship. For twenty years, he waited for her to emerge from Budapest_ …

… _and now, finally, he would repay his debt._

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_Elsewhere. London Den. 8:23 pm_

Having recently acquired a small sample of Reinette's blood, Lucian was now spattered in blood and contemplating changing his shirt, despite being already twenty minutes late to his meeting. _Was cooperation in the name of science really too much to ask? A tiny vial of untainted blood, so Singe could start running some tests. And what the bloody hell kind of way to act was that? You'd think she'd be in a better mood after yesterday, but no_ … _apparently he and his tiny vial were mistaken._ He halted in the middle of the hallway, both the fixture and an epiphany shedding a fraction of light on his person. _Perhaps he should have explained himself before drawing the knife,_ he wondered, looking out the window now, his hands behind his back. _But then she could have asked_ …

"…and the screaming was just unnecessary," he muttered, half to himself and half to the moon.

He heard a squeak.

Turning, he saw a white-faced lycan maid, she and her feather-duster cringing at the far end of the hall, trying to look invisible. He could only assume this would start another rumour, but at this point, who cared? Rather than brush off the fact that he was covered in blood and talking to himself about screaming, he looked straight at her and grunted, "Well, it was," before stalking past her and pushing the library doors open. For all intensive purposes, the room had been turned into Scotland Yard, the oak tables covered in books, paperwork and two maps of London, one of them focused on the Whitechapel sector.

 _Men. That was exactly what he needed right now._ Scanning the back of heads, he saw Raze in deep conversation with Arlington, the head of their law-enforcement. Singe was on the couch ignoring everyone. Pierce and Taylor were on the floor trying to look a bit more than useless by poring over newspapers. The untouched stack suggested the only one that interested them was the _Illustrated Police News._ There were four other men, but he saw no point in asking or remembering their names.

He cleared his throat loudly. "Report."

Arlington turned around, a bull of a man with probably the largest handlebar moustache this side of Britain. He looked surprised at the blood spattered nature of the lycan-master's shirt, but covered it quickly with a salute. "Sir. Good evening, sir. On behalf of all my men, I would like to say that it is a pleasure to be serving under you. Furthermore, I would like to thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to review our work."

 _Busy schedule._ _Exactly._ Lucian crossed his arms. _See, men knew how to treat a lycan-master,_ he thought, doing his visible best to show that he appreciated the long hours these men had invested probing the murders of two exiled vampires _. No questions, no laughter. No backing into a corner when they realised what he was after._ He was probably meant to say something, but then noticed Taylor staring at his shirt. _Yes,_ he thought, staring right back at the man. _I am a lycan attending a vampire-murder inquiry covered in fresh vampire-blood. Is that a problem?_

Met with an increasingly long silence, Arlington looked at Raze and then coughed. "Well…uhm, yes, sir. To the point." With a wide swing of the arm, he ushered them all to the oak table, his stylus already aiming for the largest map of London. "Factoring in last night's information, we've already sent a day-patrol to Poplar High Street." Using the stylus, he indicated the area, and began circling key points along the street. "According to the residents, there were severe cases of arson committed here, here, _here_ , and here, in the same week as the Blackmark Rebellion. We were able to narrow the number of cellars that survived, one of which contained evidence of a recent lycan presence."

"Evidence?"

"Scratches on the wall, sir. Bone shavings. I did the claw-rubbings myself." From his bag, he removed a tube of papers, unrolling them on the table. "As you can see, the nails vary in diameter…"

"Suggesting more than one lycan," Lucian murmured, peering at the markings, his hands behind his back. "Any blood-trace?"

"Piles of broken glass and ash, but no blood, sir. Mrs. Grimsby, however, wished us to know that she has seen some 'foul-looking folk' entering the premises and she would like us to look into the matter."

"Mrs. Grimsby?" Lucian raised an eyebrow. "I laud your sources, Arlington…but does she have a better description than foul?" _How he longed for the day when mortals had a better word than 'foul' for street-lycans._

"I'm afraid not, sir. She's quite near-sighted." Arlington smiled winningly. "She thought I was her nephew at first."

"That would explain many things…" Not caring if he stepped on Pierce or Taylor, he picked up the _Illustrated Police News_ from under their noses and flipped it onto the table so the front page was visible. _Something about a hanging. Thievery. The usual. No news on the mortal front was good news._ His next question was directed at Raze. "…any news on Stafford, McIlroy and Douglas?"

Always prepared, Raze opened a logbook, turning it around so Lucian could read the details. "They submitted to questioning, but all maintain they have had nothing to do with the Blackmarks since 1844. According to Horde Ruling 435, Section XII, we were not permitted to keep them longer than a half-morning, however, they have given us full access to their household accounts and properties."

"Singe?"

They all looked over their shoulders at the couch where Singe had staked his claim.

Singe looked up from his book, and then let out of a dry, raspy cough. _This was the second time he had been dragged from his laboratory and he was not pleased about it…on the other hand, there was nothing Singe enjoyed more than demonstrating just how very needed he was in the grand schemes of the Horde._

"There is not much to tell," he said pessimistically. "Sodium hydroxide was poured over her neck, destroying any distinguishing features of the bite. Placement and angle support the theory of a human form, but whether lycan or vampire, I have yet to be convinced." He abandoned the book and opened the file he had brought with him, pulling out a small pile of papers. "The chest-cavity held two ounces of coagulated blood, implying that she did not have adequate time to absorb her last feeding. If residents of Exile's Quarter saw her eat at the evening meal, this would place the murder between a quarter after ten and midnight." He shuffled some more papers. "Due to the severity of her injuries, the head was partially severed, but according to that one there…" He used one of the papers to indicate Taylor who was looking mildly ill. "…the head was malleable, lending weight to the time of death. Do you have questions or may I continue?"

_This thoughtful pause was one of the things they had discussed in the past, Singe's tendency to forget that he had an audience and Lucian interrupting with questions._

Lucian nodded. "Go on."

Singe furrowed his brow by an extra millimetre. "It would have been advantageous to have more than just Parker's scent-card to test against…" He paused as if to let his audience absorb the gravity of that situation. "…however, even with such paltry amounts, I was able to draw several conclusions from the comparison between Henderson and Parker's blood."

Lucian was used to Singe's not-so-very-subtle pride. "And?"

The lycan peered over his spectacles. "Henderson was considerably older than Parker, yet her file lists her age as eighty-one, accounting for only a year's difference. According to the same file, she suffered from anaemia and meningitis when she was first bitten, but again, there is no evidence of this."

"Suggesting what?" Rather than be impressed, Lucian was starting to lose sight of why they had called him here. _On the other hand, it did make for a better evening than Jacqueline._ "So she lied about her age…" He began flipping through more newspapers. "Women lie about their ages, Singe. That's what they do."

Frowning in what surely must be disappointment, Singe adjusted his spectacles. "Forgive my intelligence, old friend…but vast generalisation cannot account for the discrepancies in this file. Incorrect data presents an environment of hypotheses that may or may not be true." _Incorrect data was like a silver bullet in the mind of Singe._ His hand was almost shaking. "We could be leaping to conclusions that have no basis other than perceived fact. We must _investigate_. Determine conclusively why the victim provided false information at the time of her inception."

"Investigate, you say?" Unperturbed by this prospect and more concerned with moving on, Lucian flipped one of the pages in the logbook. "Very well…we will investigate." _He was not really reading it anymore._ "Raze," he murmured. "…how old is Allegra?"

For the first time that evening, Raze looked surprised. _He did not seem to enjoy the sudden attention of nine men on the age of his mate._ Frowning at Lucian, he grunted, "Three hundred and ninety-two."

"Really?"

The man squinted, suddenly smelling wary… "Yes."

"And the year she was changed?"

"1531."

"Excellent example," Lucian muttered, flipping another page as he did sums in his head. "So we have our current year, 1899 minus 1531. Subtract our answer from three-hundred and ninety-two, Allegra's perceived age, _APA,_ and we get…twenty-four."

Raze nodded slowly.

Lucian looked around the room. "Can all parties agree that Allegra was twenty-four at the time of her changing? That she was born in the year 1507."

Everyone in the room, except for Singe, nodded.

"Then why, I ask you, is there a nude portrait of one Allegra de' Mori, dated 1510 and housed in the Dresden Old Masters Gallery? Why does the lycan registry officially mark her age as a series of crossed-out numbers followed by " _not applicable_ "? I will tell you why…" He flipped the book shut. "…it is because women _lie_ about their ages. End of story. Finish."

Disregarding Raze's glower, he stalked over to the chalkboard and started perusing some of the research. There was an entire tree dedicated to Finnegan, the last name being just that. _Finnegan_. No evidence yet to suggest a family. "Any leads on Finnegan?"

Raze gave a soft grumble. _He had spent the night poring over the lycan registry._ "None." He followed Lucian to the chalkboard. "Finnegan hanged himself on the 12th of November 1844. The registry lists him as unmarried, despite the birth of a stillborn daughter. He never wrote his last will, thereby leaving the Horde with an excess of 4000 pounds per annum at the time of his death."

"Stillborn? Do we have the mother's name on file?"

"No."

"Hmm…any household staff?" _He was getting bored._ Leaving the chalkboard, Lucian turned his head sideways and began scanning titles on the shelf. _Madame Bovary. A General History and Collection of Voyages and Travels Volume I. Poems and Songs by Robert Burns._ He wedged the last book from the shelf. _Jules Verne's A Journey to the Interior of the Earth. No pages missing. Appropriate subject matter_ … _Icelandic setting, science-fiction, adventures, cryptology_ …

Raze was still smelling offended. "Most of them relocated to Ireland after the rebellion, but we do have a list of names. We've already sent word to Dublin, but it will be at least a week before we hear back."

"Excellent…" Already distracted, Lucian put the _Jules Verne_ book under his arm and grabbed four more for himself. _Essays on Scandinavian Literature, A History of the Covens, Lycans of the North_ and his personal favourite, _The Rise and Subsequent Fall of Lucian._ At the door, he realised the entire room was still waiting for something. _Orders._ "…right, er…call me in about a week," he said. At the last minute, his hand went into his pocket. "Oh and Singe…test this, would you?" He lobbed the vial of Reinette's blood at the couch, trusting the man's lycan instincts to catch the item before it broke.

And with that, he left.

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

Getting on his knees, Taylor came a bit closer to the couch. "Is he always like that?"

"Can you shut it," Pierce grunted from the floor. _He was just as pleased as Taylor to be allowed on the upstairs levels of the den, but far less willing to poke around with questions._ "What the lycan-master says, we do. No two ways about it."

"Yeah but…" Taylor didn't seem to hear. "…is he always like that?"

Shaking the vial of blood, Singe looked at the boy. "Which part?"

"Well…" Taking this as an invite, Taylor got off the floor. "…it's like he's all there, but…" He paused not quite knowing how to say it. "…like you know the cogs are workin' really fast…and he's really brainy, but…"

"Distracted," Raze grumbled, dropping on the other side of the couch. _It was a contrasting sight, the tiny Singe on one end and Raze taking up two seats on the other._ "Did you…" His question was swallowed by a grunt of disgust. And then, "…did you know about that portrait?"

"Mmph…" Singe was already collecting his papers. "…Giorgione's _Dresden Venus_. Remarkable work. If the face and pose are to be trusted, history would indicate she sat for Titian as well. His _Venus of Urbino_."

Raze's eyes narrowed. "Could he not have mentioned that in private?"

"Past experience would say ' _no'_ ," Singe muttered. "…and yes, he is always like this."

"Not always," Raze grunted. Everyone in the room was now listening with rapt attention. Out of the entire den, it was safe to assume Raze and Singe knew more of the lycan-master's habits than anyone else. "It gets worse when he's about to drop someone."

"You mean Jacqueline," Taylor asked frankly. He was now staring at the headless bust sitting on the mantle. "Yeah, is he getting rid of her," someone in the back piped up. "About time," Arlington muttered, circling another house on the map.

" _Oi_ ," Raze growled. _Safe to assume he had Lucian's back regardless of insult or injury._ "Does it look like this is a social meeting? The lycan-master's business is his own. Now back to _work_."

They were about to do just that when the door opened again. Lucian entered, still blood spattered and still with the books in his arms. He paused, sniffing the air, and then aimed for the map drawer. He no longer seemed to notice the stares following him. Putting the books down for a moment, he started sliding drawers open and shut, muttering as he did. "… _Iceland, Iceland, Iceland_ … _"_ A minute later, he grunted, " _Hah_." Pulling the map out, he rolled it up and added it to the stack of books. Balancing it all, he kicked the drawer shut and was halfway to the door when he stopped. "Did I miss something?"

Raze was not smiling. "Like what?"

"Like why you all smell like a pack of naggering old women, that's what." He was simultaneously trying to open a book and back out of the library doors. "Anyway, call me when you make progress. Oh and, uh…" Looking exceedingly suspicious, he paused one more time. "…Taylor, if you touch that bust, I will kill you."

The door closed.

His finger about an inch from the bust, Taylor opened his mouth. Before he could say anything, Raze cut him off. "Yes, Taylor," he said grimly. "…he is always like that and _don't_ touch the bust."

Taylor shut his mouth. _They got back to work._


	34. A Plague of Thought

**Chapter XXXIV: A Plague of Thought  
**

_The East Wing. 20th November, 1899. 7:45 pm._ _The next day._

Seated at her desk, Reinette adjusted her veil, using her pen to demurely work the gauze and in doing so, attaining a better view of her book.  _Honestly, she just wanted_   _a better bite on her pen, but she was being watched, so some form of dignity must prevail_. She had been learning English all morning. Half of the evening too. In a word, her memory was proving ' _faulty_ ,' and in several, the words were losing their meaning before she finished them. One she almost recognised… _travel…_ it looked like  _travail._

_'To work' in French._

Within moments, her head slipped onto the table, her cheek coming to rest near a blotch of ink.  _Dried already…a remnant from last week…or was it yesterday? Hard to say with the majority of her time spent working at this desk._

_Yet some things changed…_

_The subject. Her sheets. Her bathing water. The spine of her latest book, the initials 'j.v.' stamped on the cover._ She frowned, pulling it closer, opening it to the frontispiece and studying the English title for the fifth time. ' _Journey…to the interior of the…Earth' …could that be right? How could one journey inside the earth?_  Unwilling to admit the rise in her interest, she casually closed it. Lucian had dropped it on her desk…

…and for that, she would  _spurn_  it.

Crossly, she began picking at the frayed cover.  _Shocking the way he believed everything could be solved with an object. 'My apologies for kidnapping you. Have a pendant. Angry because I bled you? Have a book.' It was like throwing meat to a wounded dog_. Her nails began making ridges in the cloth. _And of course she had screamed that night…how was she to know whether by some sick hand of providence, her position had changed? How was she to act when he, an enemy, her captor, approached her with a drawn knife?_

At the last thought, she closed her eyes.  _She would not think on it. The sooner she learned their language, the sooner she could arrange passage to the North. She must remember all she had forgotten. She must escape this household. This godforsaken isle…_

Without warning, her teeth sank into the crease of her lip.  _Memories of English cruelty etched into her mind. The legs of eight women swaying in the breeze. Their necks hanging from trees. No memory of names, only thoughts of grief, horror, and loss. Anger over what this land had taken from her…_ Blood dripped onto the table, mingling with the dried ink. Distantly, she felt pain. Her thoughts balanced on the one question she had not factored into her plan.

_Could she still poison him?_

"Daydreaming will not help you learn," a stern voice said behind her, interrupting her thoughts.  _Singe_. He was getting up. "Adequate rest and good diet have no impact on lazy bones and sleeping on books," he added. "We stop for today."

"No, wait," she said, hastening to keep him there. She stood, folding her hands. "I am sorry, Master Singe. I will do better."  _Pay attention._

_Learn the English._

_Escape._

_o…o…o_

_Ten hours later._

With the dogs snapping at his heels, Lucian walked briskly down a hallway, slipped through his bedroom door, shut the door behind him, and for the first time in hours, let his head rest on a surface that was not surrounded by people.  _Escape,_ he thought _._ All he wanted was an escape.  _Meetings, dinners, drills, paperwork. Even the blood-forsaken murder investigation was getting under his skin._ He was tired, and his limbs were aching. Ignoring the bath and the dinner, he stumbled towards the bed. All he wanted was to sleep. His boots off, his shirt thrown the side, and the trousers having to make do with staying on. He collapsed on the bed, curling into the blankets like a grave, reminding himself to take a dose before he slept...

…and then falling asleep.

The laudanum, the morphine, the opium at his bedside table untouched. The clock continuing to tick, tick, tick beside his ear. Sleep taking him down into its embrace. Caressing his neck, his back, his throat…and then inexplicably, telling him to march towards a light. The embers glowing from afar, telling him that he had to be quick.  _That the iron was hot._   _That the colour was just right for forging._ He started to pound the metal.  _He had to be quick or he'd lose his chance._

Sweat on his brow, the dirt on his back…

He was back in a place where he belonged _. The old smithy._ Every tool in its place, every tong, hammer, and chisel ready at hand.  _Clang._  Like the ticking of a clock, he needed to be precise with every strike.  _Clang._ Nails kept in a crude, wooden box.  _Clang._ Steel, iron, and bronze sorted in the back.  _Clang._ Horseshoes on a line.  _Clang._  Unfinished swords on the right, shields on the left. _Clang._ If he turned, he would see armour. Crossbows. An army of slaves ready to take up the hammer, their faces as filthy as his. For the first time, he forgot to pound the metal.  _What were their names,_ he began to wonder.  _And why so many?_

As if to answer his question, the dream hastened forward. The flames rising up, forcing him to look to the metal again.  _Names did not matter. For he had to be quick or he'd lose his chance._ Behind him, he heard the gate…the creak of iron chains. The sound of a horse rearing on its hind legs, throwing a rider from its back. She had no voice. No tongue to cry out.

_Clang._

The metal was starting to curl, like paper burning over a wood fire.  _Clang._ Yellow…orange…white-hot liquid pouring down the anvil, sweeping over his feet, splashing over his legs. He could feel his skin melting onto the ground. His arms continuing to pound the metal, ignoring the sight of bone where his legs had once been.  _Clang._ In his ears, the workers were shouting. The coven bursting into flame all around him.  _Clang._  The horses.  _Clang._ The death dealers.

_Clang._

The rider.

Her face was burning.  _Clang._ Her teeth going black, her mouth starting to scream. Her body writhing on the stone, shrieking as the fire entered her lungs. Patches of skin melting into her armour _. Clang. He could not help her._  Sweat on his brow, the dirt on his back…the steel curling. She was burning on the stone. His stone.  _Clang._  Blood pouring down his anvil. His hammer pounding in her chest _._   _Clang._

The colour just right for forging.

_Clang._

_He screamed._

_o…o…o_

With a roar, he sat up, the sweat on his brow, his heart racing.  _Breathe._ The sheets were in a mess, his claws wrung through the bed. He could smell the ash.  _Breathe._  The blanket shredded to pieces.  _Breathe._ Footsteps coming briskly down the hall.  _The sound had carried…_  The door opened and he saw Raze, the man's face giving off a trace of sweat, a sign of having run from somewhere else…the kitchens, the dining hall…somewhere farther than the upper floors.  _No words were exchanged._  The lycan left, closing the door again.  _Knowing when to leave, perhaps better than anyone._

_The next moments were a plague of thought._

Shoving the blanket off, he stepped onto the carpet, tripping over a book. He kicked it _…and then bent to his bedside table, searching for what should have been there_.  _Laudanum._ _The only mistress that let him sleep. Rest. Forget his dreams. Forget his memories. He could have been dreaming of nothing, but no…_

_…the smithy._

_Just one of over a dozen misshapen memories, all of them ending in fire. The worst moments of his life playing over and over in his head._  He was standing in the bathroom now, his face over the washstand, his hand reaching for the syringe. _'Forget or go mad,'_ someone had once told him.  _Magnus._ One of the pack-leaders in the North and the only lycan who'd ever had the balls to tell him to kill himself so there'd be more blood-wine and less whining.  _Certainly his first wake-up call in the years following his wife's death._ As the needle broke his skin, a sense of cold reality sank in. _Despite his initial hatred of the man, Magnus had become a close friend, one he hoped to trust during the Gathering of the Horde._  Five months left to go. All the major pack-leaders making their way across the Channel, their minds on murder and assassination.  _Three leaders merging in the northern hemisphere. Two leaders merging in France. The fate of Amelia._

_That he would live to see that day._

Back in his bedroom, he considered the sheets and then the clock.  _Ten in the morning._ He didn't have to be up for seven hours, but there was no way he was going back to bed.  _Ripped sheets. The scent of flesh burning._ His arm went up to his nose, stopping himself from breathing, all the while, backing away from the four-poster. _Magnus had once told him it was the plague of getting old. The memories running over the edge…not just in the blood, but the rest of the body too. The touch of a finger, the scent of a nose, the organs of taste, sight, and sound. The senses exceeding their bounds, taking hold of what should remain in the blood…_

The thought made him pause, his attention drawn to the bed…and then the door.  _It was just a theory…something Magnus had said during a raid._

Beyond that door, ten minutes away, was Reinette, her body old, her blood ruined, sleeping under the assumption that her memories were tied to ruined blood _…but if she really were that old, her memories might have spilled, remnants of her past clinging to something deeper than blood. Taste, sight, sound, touch._  Her mouth sharp, a centuries old tune coming from her throat. Her ability to smell unaffected, an ancient flower giving her pleasure, a conversation raising names, cultures, scraps of memory that neither of them knew she had. _At times, he wondered if she remembered more than she let on…_

 _…_ _and if he should have been so quick to bring her to London._

Regardless of impulse, in five months, he'd have to present her purpose before the packleaders. Three days of talks, and only one to prove that her presence would in no way affect the safety of the Horde. Blood knew how he'd step around her knowledge of his name, the onslaught of questions, the potential of execution…yet he'd already decided his plan of attack. Whatever their fate, the historical bloodseers had been tools of war, glorified weather vanes turning one way or another by virtue of blood. One drop and a general could see the potential of any lycan soldier…

_…Imre, for example._

_The one slated to assassinate Amelia. It was his hope that the pack-leaders would agree to the lycan's blood being tasted by Reinette. But first…vital that they knew she was an exile, trustworthy as a prisoner_ _…someone who'd been stripped bare of all her secrets._

He could feel it…the rush of the drug.  _The adrenaline…  
_

_Time to get a move on._

Four steps and he was at the foot of his bed, gathering research, too eager to look at the titles, stuffing them haphazardly in one of the pillowcases. _Scandinavian history. Sami culture. History of the covens._ Shoving the last book in, he hoisted the bundle over his shoulder…and pulled open his bedroom doors, squinting into the sunlight down the hall. _The more he knew, the better he could treat her. Perhaps even one day, walking outside the East Wing, seeing the rest of the house. The library. The gardens. Not a prisoner, but a genuine member of his den._

_An ally._

_One that he could help._


	35. Ten in the Morning

**Chapter XXXV: Ten in the Morning  
**

_The East Wing. Ten minutes later._

_"Reinette."_

With a half-muffled snort, she sat up, still half asleep."Rena," she mumbled.  _Why was Rena's voice so deep?_

Her bed-curtains were pushed aside, the light of a candle blinding her.  _Something was wrong with this picture._ She squinted, trying to wade through the sleep, the mugginess…trying to understand why Rena…why Rena looked like…

_No._

_She had to be dreaming. Blood, let this be a dream, it was…_ Her fingers went for the bedside table, the small timepiece on the wood. She opened the clasp… _a quarter past ten in the morning._ She tried to say something…mumbled. "… _Lyosh_ … _a_ …ten…morning…trying to…"

"I've had an epiphany, Reinette." He was shirtless, tapping his thumb against the book in his hand.  _It was an announcement…one that did not seem to take into account that she was trying to sleep._  "…all this time, I've been letting nature hold the reins. Observing without remorse, believing you are meant to be in this state…" He gestured at her face and body. "…old, decrepit, weak, lacking in memory…believing there was  _nothing_  I could do to help you…"

She tried to speak, but the words were stuck at the back of her throat _. If this was how he woke his mistresses in the morning, then by her decrepit, old face, she felt sorry for them._

"…but I  _can_  help you," he said as though they were having a conversation, crouching by her bed, rubbing the spine of the book against his beard. "I can pick up the pieces, I can allow myself to take an active stance before the Horde, to  _do_  all that I can for you…"

"Mmhmm," she managed, hoping he would now leave.

Instead, he lightly thumped the edge of her bed.  _Like patting a dog._ Using the book as his pen, he began outlining his ideas in the air. "We will have a system of research. A firm grasp of the problem, a strong plan of  _attack._ "  _It sounded like he was getting an army ready for war._

"Mhry…insightful," she said against her pillow.  _Also the Sami word for 'dog,' but he didn't hear that part. Thank Rena, she was wearing a chemise._

"Of course it is," he grunted, putting his hands behind his back. "…but we've wasted time, woman." He was so loud. "The time is  _now_. We seize the day. We trigger the mind and we take back what is yours. Memories, youth. All of it. I have a plan…and by Victoria's head, I  _will_  see it through." The candle was suddenly in his hand. He held the light directly in front of her face. "…come, Reinette." His fingers on her hand. "…are you with me?" Reddish-grey eyes looking deep into her soul, a voice of strength and resolution, so clearly a leader of men.  _It was a moving speech…_

…but she was so… _tired_. _Did he honestly think she was going to leap out of her bed?_ Her hand went to her forehead. She groaned. "Go… _away_."

 _Too late. The match had been struck._  He was lighting candles about the room, stopping at the door to hoist a pile of books. "Too much at stake," he said, shaking his head.  _There had to be at least twenty of them. Small books, large books, at least one atlas_ … _and a pillowcase on the floor_. "You're awake, I'm awake…" He stacked all of them on her desk and then turned, arms outstretched like a lycan messiah. "…we work. We research…and you, woman, are going to write down  _every_  memory that you can think of."

She tried to break it to him slowly. "Lyosha…I have only had… _two_  hours…of sleep. Honestly…your concern is touching, but at the moment, I do not care…"

"Do not care?" With a single pull, he ripped away her blanket, her sheets. "I almost named you after a  _ship_ , woman. Do you know how cheap that is? A stinking  _whale_  of a ship with an eel for her captain." He was leaning over her. "There is a rich history in your veins, Reinette…" He took hold of her arm, gradually starting to ease it away from the pillow. "Your past, your history…that 'H' on your side… _that_  is your past.…and if you would just…"

She snapped. "Get your dirty fingers  _off_  my wrist, Lyosha…"

" _Reinette_ …"

Her nails grew. "I am…not…" She dug them deeper. "…leaving…this bed.…not for you and not for some drug-induced crusade  _either_. Kill me if you must, but blow out the light first."

"…for blood, woman, stop being so childish."

"Go mate with a  _dog_."

"Will a bitch do," he growled, his fingers staring to make marks on her skin. Like a harness, his hand was tied around her wrist, trying to make her come…yet weakness could be strength when bones were involved. Even he was not willing to pull too hard…

…leaving them at a standstill. "Come on, Reinette…" The voice of gritty reason by her ear. "…this is undignified. Get up, wash your face and…"

" _No_."

"I could rip your arm off," he said, clearly in the hope that a threat would make her let go.

"Do it, Lyosha, and I swear, I'll strip so  _fast_  you'll have to explain to Rena why you have an armless, naked, old vampire clinging to your chest in bed," she said, gritting her teeth against her pillow. "…screaming and naked…is  _that_  dignified enough for you?"

He visibly shuddered, her wrist dropping in a split second.  _To be more precise, it was thrown._  Looking disgusted…and a bit surprised that he was being forced to abandon what should have been a clear situation, he took a deep breath and backed away from her bed. "That was by far the most  _inappropriate_  thing ever to come out of your mouth," he said. "…so while I wash my mind, you have ten minutes to pull yourself together. More than I'd give a half-dead lycan with consumption…"

She almost hissed. "Do I  _look_  like a lycan?"

"Not in  _this_  light," he yelled, shutting the door with a bang.

_That…_

_…drug-induced, half-mongrel piece of excrement. Thank the sunlit heavens, he was gone. A vampire awake in the morning. Whoever heard of such a thing?_ Blowing the closest candle out, she wrenched the bed-sheets back over her head, almost wanting to sing curses as she pressed her cheek back into the pillow.  _The rest could burn for all she cared._

_Blessed sleep._

_o…o…o_

_The next morning. 9:30 am._

He must have fallen asleep for it was not until the next day that the door opened. A bucket of ice-water splashed in her face…and ten minutes later, she was seated by the firegrate, attempting to wrap herself in something dry.  _How had she ever doubted herself? She wanted to kill him. She knew she could kill him now_. She pulled the blanket closer round her shoulders, trying to get warm. He was lying on  _her_  bed, a pen in his mouth, crossing names off a sheet of parchment.  _Still off his head on laudanum, all the while running after some hare-brained scheme to make her remember more._

"Agnes?"

"No."

"Agnetha?"

"No."

"Aina, Andrea…Anja…Anna…"

"No, no, no…all of it,  _no_." She wanted to rip her hair out. "…can we not do something else? Something less obvious in its futility?"

"Excellent point." He got off the bed. "Far quicker to read than be read to…though I suppose in theory, if we are to state the obvious, then one must be literate." Closing the cover, he left both the book on the table and stood, parchment in hand, stretching out before adopting the familiar pose.  _Arms behind back, attention on eyes._

He aimed the parchment at her. "First assignment…" He sounded like a general dictating to his secretary. "…you are to  _attack_  a different letter every night. Read  _every_  name, and if it sounds in any way familiar…write it down." He turned, waving the parchment about like a stylus. "Same goes for every dream, every powerful memory, every sensory thought…" He tossed a second book at her feet. A small, leather-bound journal, the mirror of the one she had seen on the ship. "At the end of every day, just after sunrise, we discuss what might have triggered the memory. Understood?"

"No,  _lycan-master_. I find something so simple to be confusing." Deciding to feel like a rock, she leaned forward, picking up the book and flipping it open.  _Empty._ "What makes you think…" She tossed the book back to him. "…that I have  _any_  intention of letting you read my memories?"

He caught the book. "I never  _said_  you had to give the actual memories to me." Instead of throwing, this time, he stepped forward and handed it back to her.  _Almost polite._ "Keep the book…write in gibberish if you must, but beside each entry, I want you to write down  _exactly_  what triggered the memory. It can be a smell, a taste, a sight, a sound, a touch. Any number of things."

"Why?"

"Lycan tribunal in the coming year, and though as usual, I shouldn't be telling you this…" He paused, a thought seeming to cross his mind so that for a moment there was light in his face. Something funny. He chuckled and then let the matter rest. "I suppose if you escape, the lycan council will have bigger problems," he said, "…but that aside, when the Horde gathers, one of the topics under discussion will be your head."

" _What_?"

"Oh keep your hair on. It's not that serious." He gestured to the desk, the bathroom, the walls. "We'll just show them what you're capable of, give them some history, prove you're an exile, present you before the Horde…you should be fine."

_Should be…_

"But I  _am_  an exile…"

"…who knows my name."

"I haven't told anyone."

"So far."

She felt floored, her legs not working. Tired _. Unnerving having to remember who he was. That perhaps to him…the question of whether she would survive the year was not one he would lose sleep over._  "But…"  _Her head. "…_ if you keep me alive, that is  _your_  decision, is it not? You are the final vote?"

"Of course…" He was speaking more to the bedcurtains than her. "…but if the Horde is going to use you the way I want it to, they have to trust you. Therefore, hence, etc., we have to prove to them…and  _me_ …" He seemed to be contemplating her again. "…that you're a much coveted, albeit old, exile in need of shelter and employment."

"Says the wolf to the helpless lamb."

He grinned. "Says the spoiled meat that killed the wolf."

"But I…" She closed her mouth and then opened it again.  _Why did he always prompt that reaction?_  "…I know what I am, Lyosha.  _You_  know what I am. Even if my memories are ruined, I have the mark to prove it."

"The mark is fresh."

She shut her mouth.  _Etched into her side, stuck on her skin, reminding her of…Hrafn. The H on her side stood for Hrafn._

"Seared in the last century, I'd say." Oblivious to her discomfort, he was twiddling his thumbs, going to and fro with his head, thinking aloud. "…likely a foreign coven by the letter, which makes me think you were captured, branded and as was or is the custom, I should say, slated for execution." He started eyeing her bedside table, as though trying to see through wood. "But why no record…and how did you escape? When? Where?" He was definitely studying her…like a sample. "Were you set free? And if you  _were_ , did you exchange something for that freedom?"

 _Well, aren't you the village blacksmith_ , she thought, choosing to meet his eye. "These are all pertinent questions, Lyosha, but if I  _were_  in some foreign coven, you can be sure I was sitting in a foreign cell," she said.  _He was right up to a point. A snow-covered fortress in the North. A coven of wildlings…led by the one who branded her. She knew that much…_

 _…_ _but should she tell him what she knew?_

"And why head to Budapest," he muttered, opening her bedside drawer and with his pen, scattering the contents about. There was a stray stocking hanging from the wood, and to her mortification, he held it up, frowned and then flung it aside.

_Question answered._

"How would I know," she said bluntly.  _Even if she did, she'd rot before she told him. Holding up her stockings with a pen…_

"Tanis said you were looking for information…" Bored with the drawer, he was kicking pillows off her bed now, apparently seeking some form of flatness. "…someone called Aris…does that ring any bells, Reinette?" He made a come hither motion with both hands. " _Aris_ …come on, say the name with me."

"Not if you're going to serve me up to a pack of vampire-killing lycan warlords," she replied, digging deeper into her blanket.

"Ha." Ignoring the pillows for a moment, he picked up the parchment again, starting to fold the edges. "I know at least one woman who would take offence to that statement…"

"You?"

" _Allegra_ , you piece of ash." He crumpled the parchment and threw it at her. "…but you realise, these are the questions you'll be getting." His voice became serious. "Questions that need to be dealt with before I can use you…"

 _Used. Always being used._  "In a bigger cell?"

"With your very own head…" He stood. "…unless I get picked off in the next year. Then it goes."

"Oh  _good_ ," she said, picking up the crumpled parchment.  _If he didn't care about getting 'picked off,' perhaps she should take the same attitude._ "…horde secrets, a bigger cell, my neck intact  _and_  I get to throw up daily."

"Another reason for you to crack those books right now." Seeming to understand that she was not leaving her blanket, he ran a hand over several covers and then decided on three. He dropped them on her blanket. "Quite a medley, though you may have some difficulty with some of the French ones, but no matter, Rena will help you…" He dropped four more on her blanket.  _Two more French, one Latin, and one completely useless English one with illustrations._ "…and don't forget  _this_."

 _A map_ _…_

 _…_ _of Iceland.  
_

She felt one of her hairs come out. The next few minutes were a blur of him talking about things he'd read, things he'd seen, a possible means of triggering her memories by sound. It was like watching a half-crazed war pigeon trying to find its way into a hand that did not exist. A minute later, he was gone, closing the door behind him, muttering about some book he'd forgotten in the library. When he did not return, she assumed he'd fallen asleep somewhere, laudanum often starting with adrenaline and ending with lethargy _. Sleep._ Unable to sleep after the visit, she lay on her bed, thinking, declining her breakfast when Rena brought it.  _Obviously he was abusing the drug to a greater extent, but why?_

_o…o…o_

_Two days later. 8:30 am._

" _Reinette_."

 _No_ , she thought.  _No, no, no…it was becoming a routine. Worse than being in exile. It was like…hell. Every morning for three days, waking her, forcing her to read through books, maps, names…anything and everything he had found on Scandinavia. Pure torture. Why morning? Did he not sleep? Should he not be sleeping?_  It was the third morning. He looked terrible. At least on the surface, his demeanour far rougher than hers, like someone had cranked him through a laundry-wringer.  _She hoped it was Rena_. He stank of laudanum _…_ and to her irritation, blood-alcohol.  _If anyone needed a drink, it was her._  But rather than protest vocally, she took her blanket, dragged it off the bed and tried to make a nest on the floor.  _Blanket. Sheets._

_He wanted the bed._

_Fine._

_Take it._

"Why are you doing this to me," she mumbled into the one pillow she had left. She had started leaving it on the floor in anticipation of his visits. "I could have been sleeping…and  _you_ …"  _Bastard,_ she finished in her head. "…you could be…" She scowled. _"…_ dallying with women…and dogs…and dead horses…"

He sounded drunk. "Is that  _all_  you think I do?"

" _Yes_ ," she said, settling herself in front of the grate. "…and so does Rena."

"No, she doesn't…"

"Yes, she  _does_ …"  _She no longer cared…if he woke her at this hour, then he should expect to hear it exactly as she thought it._ "…and so does everyone else, so can you _please_  live up to their expectations…" Hand over her eyes, she blindly indicated the door. "…mate with someone…not even a dog…a dally-woman…a mistress… _anyone_?" _Anything._

"If I had a shilling for every woman that charged me to go mate with someone else." Despite the obvious slur, the half-grin had found its way onto the rough surface. "…and for your information, you old prude, just because I  _allow_  myself some of the physical pleasures of life, it doesn't mean I'm a bona fide hedonist."

"Then what does it mean?" She was not so much in the conversation as continuing a line of words that did not involve her reading a Scandinavian census from the 16th century.  _Shocking what kind of books he had in his library._

He paused _._  "It means…" Silence doing the thinking, the frown starting to come back. "…that there is pleasure…and then there is pleasure."

"One…" She yawned loudly. "…reflecting the other?"

"No."

 _To answer or not to answer._ _Her situation separate, yet having little and everything to do with what he was saying. It did not mean she would sympathise with him._ The words fell out of her mouth. "A disparity between the physical and the mental then." _  
_

He looked down at her and then sat forward, his legs hanging over the edge. The bed was certainly tall enough, though he looked unsteady. "Yes." A deep, unassuming laugh, for once not on the heel of sarcasm. "…and between the two, if one is absent, though you might have chosen differently in another life…you now have a choice between nothing and that which is left over."

"Physical for the physical, and mental for the mental. The states do not coincide," she murmured. "…and as a result, you suffer a disconnect."

"Suffer…" It was as though he were working out the syllables, right there, in all his drugged-up glory. "The word is too strong…how can one  _suffer_  when there is no emotion?"

"A lack of emotion is still an emotion, Lyosha."  _Perhaps the census was better than discussing his love-life with him._ She got up.  _It looked as though he'd be staying here for the morning again. May as well get dressed then._ With the closet open, she flicked the hangers past, one by one, choosing the blue skirt. White shirt.  _Plain._

"Not true," he said, scratching his chest, the picture of a dandy at his ease.  _For the love of anything, why could he not wear a shirt?_ "…I miss nothing. I live my life in the present."

"Opium, war and women," she muttered, putting the clothes over her shoulder "Two  _empty_ pastimes paired with work, all used in favour of  _nothing_."

"Who has time for nothing," he said, staring at the wall. "…we keep to the shadows and survive the war. That's what lycans do, Reinette." His voice was getting deeper…slower, whatever adrenaline he had was finally drawing to a close. "If I were to dwell on nothing, I think I'd be…" He looked up, searching for her and then giving up when it must have become apparent that she was blurry. "… _fucked_ …royally, and not in the way of Victoria…"

He was not paying enough attention to notice that she was now in the bathroom _…_

 _…a_ _nd to be honest, no longer listening._ With the door closed, she stripped quickly, putting the clothes on without bothering with the undergarments.  _More comfortable, and less time-consuming._ She washed her face. Combed the hair forward, trying not to notice too much the bath's reflection, her face like a craggy mountain. She could hear him, through the wall, his sentences breaking now and then, a man trying to weigh his own thoughts.  _The last words she caught…_

"…and nothing is such a  _harsh_  word. Is Jacqueline nothing?" It was becoming painfully obvious how tired he was. "I know she's young, but…she just keeps talking…all the time." It was like a concept he was unfamiliar with. "On and on and on…not that I hate talking, but…" He seemed to be nursing the word. "…am I nothing?"

She'd had enough.

"It  _means_ …" She opened the door and stuck her head out. "…when you are screwing your mistress, Lyosha, you may as well be screwing an opium plant. Your pursuits mean nothing, yet they are used in favour of the  _true_  nothing that might replace them. That does not mean  _you_  are nothing. It just means you are drunk, drugged, and likely overdosing right  _now._ "

Rather than be offended, he gave another deep laugh, this time ending flat on her bed. "Honest  _and_  blunt," he said to the ceiling. "…though I've yet to find an opium plant that could take the kind of copulating you think I do, woman."

" _And_  Rena."

"…and Rena," he agreed woozily, looking up at her with a sleepy, disarming grin. She might regret it, but she found herself returning the favour; as expected it only encouraged him. He tapped his chest. " _See?_  Not frightening at all. Merely capable of killing you."

"Very comforting."

"You are…" His eyes were starting close. "…jumpy as a horse before breaking…" He was drifting, occasionally putting his head up. "…and I expect progress, Reinette." He tried to point. "Answers. As many memories…as you can think of…"

 _He was falling asleep…already._  "Lyosha?"

"Mm…"

She came closer. And then under her breath, so even the walls could not hear, she said, "Lucian?"

He inhaled, the faintest sense that he could almost hear her, one of his hands falling off the end of the bed, hanging there like deadweight. With her index finger, she prodded his shoulder. He made no sound.

_Asleep._

_It was not fair._ Exhaling, she went to Rena's door and knocked softly.  _Time to call in the infantry._  She stepped back as Rena came in the room, followed by Raze, the large man ducking his head so as not to hit the doorway.  _They had been doing this for the past two days._ Raze seemed to follow him wherever he went…and whether it was his expression or the way that he went about his business, it always gave her the impression that this was  _not_  new…and that for many years, Raze had been the one to pick up the pieces. That wherever Lyosha might end up…Raze was the one to swing him over his shoulder or direct Rena or whoever happened to be nearby to take the feet, while he took the arms.

She watched them pick him up.

 _Officially no one would tell her what was happening…why he was raising his dose or why he was awake during the day. All the same…Rena had made a point of not mentioning last night that perhaps…_ _Lyosha might not have a tendency to act odd, dare she say, fairly mad just before he cut his ties…and that perhaps…_ _the spoiled tart might not be around much longer._ _Which, of course, could probably not mean…in the words of Rena_ _…_

_Fireworks._

_Oh yes please,_ she thought, hearing the door lock behind them.


	36. The Norms of Society

**Chapter XXXVI: The Norms of Society**

_24th November, 1899. The London Den. 7:45 pm._

_But there were to be no fireworks._ Instead, eleven hours had passed and, though much was to be expected of Friday evening, much less had happened since Raze and Rena had carried Lucian from the East Wing. For example, he had woken to find himself alone, and as was customary for one who dabbled in a variety of substance, going from highs to lows depending on his dosage, he began to find himself unreservedly, if not explicably, depressed. He concluded then that this was a passing phase related to his opium habit and that, having enjoyed the heights of adrenaline, he must now suffer the lows that came afterwards.  _The feeling of emptiness, as though there was little reason to continue with anything. Murder inquiries, revenge, war…Jacqueline…what was the point? In four hundred years, even if he won the war, killing the Elders before instigating peace…_

_…what then?_

_What would their society become?_

_Immortal beings living without fear of extinction…like the vampires…static. Unchanging. Dead._  He lay in bed, contemplating this dismal future for at least two hours before getting up to bathe.  _Cold water from the taps. A change of clothes_.  _A new day. A new beginning._ Outside his bedroom, he found himself having a short, but pertinent conversation with Raze over his behaviour from the past three days.  _All of these things necessary for him to get his head screwed on right._  So he agreed to take better care of himself. He agreed to lower his dosage as best he could and that,  _yes_ , perhaps it would be best if he occupied himself with work for the next few days.  _Important work. Lycan work. Work that did not involve Reinette, Scandinavia, or anything 'distracting' that might prompt him to talk openly about 'personal matters' at ten in the morning with a 'glorified prisoner.'_

_Agreed._

_And so the norms of society threatened to begin once more. The meetings, the transfers, the inspections. The life of the lycan-master as it was, living behind closed doors and keeping his people hidden through the Line._  All he had to do was walk down that hall, go into the library…or the study…or the barracks…even the bloody dining room, and it would all start again. _Things he'd rather ignore,_ _but could not. So he would do as he must_ … _he would get_ _his head back together. He would get rid of Jacqueline. He would act normal. Be focused. Active. Full of zeal for his position. The great lycan-master at work.  
_

Instead, he wandered down to the kitchens and spent the first part of the evening watching Bess roast a duck. He found himself having little to say, and she, used to his quiet moods, shooed most of the kitchen out and let him sit there.  _Elizabeth Fulligan. The only mistress he never left, and as a result, the one he had the best relationship with, despite the occasional hiccups._ She handed him a glass jar, and he opened it, leaving the cover on the table. Staring into the jar.  _Depressing._   _Once a glorious, buxom girl with a twinkle in her eye…and now she was old. She'd die in a few years._

"Are you alright, sir?"

_Sir._

"Oh, fine, Bess," he said. "I am doing just fine." He handed the open jar back to her.  _Some kind of preserve. Orange._  "I'll see you in the morning. Feeling a bit tired."

She looked confused. "Morning, sir?"

"Evening," he said, correcting the confusion.  _He was never awake in morning. Everyone knew that._  "I meant evening." He walked out, and as he did, four servants came back in, at least one of them smelling like she wanted to wring his neck for interrupting what would have to be a burnt pea-soup now. _Damned if he cared._

_He could wring his own neck.  
_

_o…o…o_

_Meanwhile…_

A floor above in the East Wing, Reinette was asleep. She knew she was asleep for what she saw before her was a thing that could not exist.  _Snow. A fire. A cave._ She could feel smooth rock against her back, the smell of clean air coming from the entrance. On her right, a knife and stone, one meant to sharpen the other. On her left, a leather bag carrying her belongings. Everything she owned in the world held within that bag.

She opened it…

…but where memory faded, her dream filled the gaps, causing her hand to reach inside and draw out three items which did not exist in this memory. A bronze mirror, a wooden box and a silver key. The mirror she lingered over, touching the face on its surface.  _Eyes from her father…and the jaw. She had a stubborn jaw, the jaw of a Norseman he'd always told her. The cheekbones of her mother. Things she must forget. Smooth skin. Black hair pulled back in a braid. Look away._

She put the mirror down, and instead looked to the box. The sense of familiarity as she picked it up, shaking it once, hearing the metal rattle inside.  _Lyosha's box._ The one she had seen on the ship, the small lock without a key. Thinking she had solved a puzzle, she tried the silver key in the lock…but it was too large.  _A door-key perhaps or a trunk_. Again, she shook the box, and this time, as though the dream wanted her to know more, she saw the lock falling away _…_ the hinge opening silently…

…and the dream shutting her out.

She felt a palm hit her cheek, the blow causing the back of her head to strike stone.  _Pain. The scent of blood from a wound._  Dazed, she touched her hand to her mouth. Bleeding. She looked, searched in the darkness for the one who had struck her.  _There was no sign. No face. No smell._ And then, as a ghost, a woman stepped from behind her and picked up the box. Green eyes staring into blue…the smile of one who had chided a wayward daughter.  _This was not her mother, yet she knew this woman…the name falling from her lips, the name carrying relief…joy…understanding._

_Á_ _ris._

Twenty years ago, she had been looking for Áris. Her mentor. The green-eyed woman of Rome with the devil's sword on her back.  _But the days of Rome were long since past_. Her mentor already turning to go, tossing the box aside and leaving her behind in this cave.  _Not only the sword on her back, but a shield as well. Daggers. Supplies_. She was going to war.  _A_   _battle_. There was a horse waiting for her, the saddle holding bags on either side.

"Wait." She struggled to her feet, almost crawling after her mentor. "Don't go…please don't go." There were tears in her eyes.  _She did not want her to go._  " _Please_ …you do not come back. You never come back."

"This is a dream, child." Áris had already mounted, the straps checked, the moon rising with every minute. Her voice was very soft. Soothing. "Were I to stay, I would  _still_  not come back."

"But you…" She was holding her stomach, the tears starting to come up, breaking her voice. "…you are alive. I cannot remember where or how…but you are alive. Somewhere…and you have to help me. It all went wrong. Everything went wrong. I was trying to find you…"

"There is war brewing to the east, child…"  _Tiring of the imagination, the dream had fallen back into memory._ The horse began to paw the ground, eager to be gone. Her helmet was under her arm. _The last thing one needed as a deathdealer…except Áris was no deathdealer. Not anymore. Her helmet tarnished, the silver stripped from the metal._ She flicked her hair back and placed the helmet on.  _The face of an angel with the armour of a demon._ "…so I must go. Follow me in a week."

"But I…"

The horse leaped into motion, the strides taking it beyond her voice. Her hope sinking. Her knees cold as she sank to the ground, watching them go.  _It was the last time she saw her mentor. Seven hundred years ago._ She swallowed, looking behind her. The box had fallen to the ground, half open, the back of the lid facing her. If she walked around it, she would see what was inside. _What her mind had conjured to be inside. But her dream had been clear. Her mentor had been clear. Lucian was not her ally._

_Not her friend._

She closed the box…

…stirring but once in her sleep. A face stirring above her head, a hand reaching onto her bed, the pendant withdrawn and the door closed. And still, she slept on, the pendant… _gone_.


	37. Of Death and Morning

**Chapter XXXVII: Of Death and Morning**

_25th November 1899. 7:21 am._

It was the morning of the next day. The fireworks admittedly still silent, despite a brief episode involving Jacqueline and the master bedroom door, her cries falling on deaf ears and her plan to 'break in' torn asunder by Raze.  _The finest but certainly not the sharpest knife in the box using concentrated perfume and a cigarette to try and burn the door down._  As for Lucian, to say that 'things had gone as planned' for him was not quite accurate either.

Rather, he had  _started_  with a plan in mind. He had entered his room the night before and, instead of veering straight for his drugs cabinet, he aimed straight for his writing desk. The massive pile of papers that had accumulated over the past three days _._  Following Raze's advice, he spent a good half hour skimming the daytime report, taking note of all payments and shipments, signing off on one of two transfers. Solely because of Bess, he looked over the household finances, approving her request for extra beef rations in the coming season of good cheer; and then, having left it for last, he opened the envelope in his pocket.

 _A very stiff, very plain envelope with a very red seal. Raze had given it to him two days ago, the paper inside probably the most important document in need of his signature._ His eyes skimming the code and then rolling before searching for his journal. The same one Reinette had been rifling through that morning on the ship.  _Dates, dates, dates_ … _two centuries of dates_ … _and now one more._   _1900\. April 1900, and by the look of things, it would be Wagner this year. Not his favourite choice, but then beggars could not be choosers_ … _especially when it came to a Gathering._

Finding his journal in the liquor cabinet, he wrote the date in code, signed the document and left both on the desk, his right hand now otherwise engaged with opening a bottle of blood-wine. His left hand tapping away incessantly, his legs kicking back, pacing the length of the room, the wardrobe, the bed…and truth be told, ending up in the master bathroom. For it was  _there_  that his plan dissolved.  _There_  that he remained until morning…

…and to bathe in morning was a beautiful thing in the lycan-master's quarters. Lovely beyond reason, but not for the lycan-master, who by societal norms was passed out on the floor, an empty laudanum bottle within his reach, and beyond that, a pool of something vile. He had been there since half past three, having drunk his way through the bloodwine, having decided four hours ago to spontaneously kill himself, and then, acknowledging the extent of his inebriation, having chosen to wait until after sunrise.  _No one looked for him after sunrise. Allegra would arrive in the evening. Langley, facing the prospect of Mrs. Fulligan's displeasure, would enter to help him dress. The door would open, and heaven help them, a hell he had not craved for a century would break loose, Jacqueline weeping into her gown, Raze being the only one worth a knife to cut him down._

 _Was this a new occurrence,_ one might ask, certainly Jacqueline… _this unexpected decision to kill himself in spite of the war, the Horde, the countless lycans whose lives rested on his shadow?_ Though passed out and the object of much scrutiny, he would have flatly denied it…for he was aware of his problem.

For six hundred years, preaching to people about survival when twenty-eight percent of the time, he wanted to kill himself. Sixty-two percent, living because of other people and ten, contemplating why revenge was worth living as a dead man in a domestic household _. Like an empty shell, spending the majority of his time signing documents, approving transfers, negotiating merges_ … _Empty by habit, empty by requirement, yet not so empty that he could not at times become painfully aware of how empty his life really was._

_A life with Jacqueline._

_Catherine. Helena. Greta. Elizabeth. Suzanne. Allegra. Victoria._ The rest of their names in his library, the point being that in all cases, the slighted woman, she whose end he could so easily contemplate, acted not as a filler, but a marker; the figurative point in his life when he began to question himself, dwelling and wondering over the point of his existence.  _Reason, yes. A horde, a war, a revenge to be had, saving his people from extinction_ … _all manner of reasons for him to exist, but to what point? The answer, at times, within his reach before it dissolved, leaving him with nothing. The prospect of being nothing_ … _having nothing._

Or worse…

 _Filling the gap_ … _giving in_ … _after so many years of shutting them out, giving in to his memories._ Her name. Her face.  _Allowing her voice to resurface, allowing himself to remember, to compare, to see how far he had fallen since her death. Every woman seeming but a cheap copy of marble_ … _the original lost beneath the sun, and he, obsessing over that fact, his mind consumed with every moment, every mistake, every choice he could have made differently_ … _plans and strategy within the past, forever trying to save that which could no longer be saved_ …

 _But for that, he was not ready_ … _not now_ … _perhaps never again_ …and so, dreaming of death, he once again embraced the nothing, his conscience finally settling on the fact that however many times he despaired of being empty, the opposite was far worse.  _Far worse to remember than to forget, and far better to live with a hole in his chest than die in mourning._ So he stirred…he stirred in his sleep, knowing that in a few hours, he would get up and the noose would come down; knowing that in the evening, he would dine with Raze, Allegra, and Jacqueline, the food immaculate, the rationing lifted for the sake of an important guest. Dessert would come, and as the parties withdrew, he knew he would quietly break the news to Jacqueline. She would leave the room, he would go after her and in the space of two hours, all of which would be spent listening to her weep, he knew that his mind…his prospects…would go from broken nights, alcohol and depression to the heights of optimistic and purposeful existence. His mood would swing, the drugs would sing…

…and all would be as it should.

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The East Wing._

At precisely that time, Reinette was far less inclined towards killing herself when plainly someone else ought to be the target.  _Lucian had not arrived for their morning session_ … _and to make matters worse, she had been robbed._ Her hand forced beneath her bathtub, scrapping against the tiles, trying to reach the far corners, her frustration weighing heavier than she would have thought, given her dream from the night before _._   _Her pendant was gone._ The chain no longer around her neck…the enameled piece as much absent from her room as Lucian. _The image of the lighthouse. The osprey lost at sea._ They were on their knees…her  _and_  Rena, looking under the bed, checking drawers, cracks and loose floorboards. The third time they had gone over the room…and only now, the certainty that she had lost it.  _But when?_

"Are you sure you've not seen it?"

"Not since yesterday." Rena was moving the bedside table back into place, as ever stoic in her handling of the situation. Surprising, the idea that, mere months ago, the woman had been torturing her for information. "You wore it when you slept?"

She frowned, rubbing her forehead. "I think so…"  _Hard to remember. She had gotten dressed the morning before_ … _and then_ … _after they took Lucian away, she returned to her bed_ … _and left_ _the pendant on the table._ "…I could have sworn I put it right there."

Rena was staring impassively at the door. "Other than you, I only smell Raze, Lyosha, and myself, but if you are sure, I will speak to Lyosha about it…"

" _No_ …" She stood quickly, dusting off her skirt. "…no, that is not necessary." She made her voice firm. "I trust your senses, Rena…" She was making excuses.  _Someone had taken her pendant_ … _someone who had access to this room. "_ …and for that matter, it is just a trinket. Just a…silly trinket beneath the floorboards," she said, forcing her teeth to smile, recalling for the first time in some days how little she knew of Rena. _Rena who hardly spoke, yet knew so much about hurting vampires._

She could feel her trust starting to unwind, her defences rising once more. Turning away, she pulled her nightgown from the wardrobe and drew it over her head, her eyes still searching the floor. Other names sifted and discarded as she opened one more drawer and then closed it. _Raze, an unlikely candidate for stealing jewellery_ … _Jacqueline, jealous but guaranteed to leave a scent wherever she walked; Sabine, too brash to steal something when she could demand it_ … _and Lucian_ …

 _Too unconscious,_ she decided, her eyes now following Rena's back as her warden left the room _._   _Could Rena have taken the pendant_ … _but why?_

The question causing her to stand, unmoving, as her mind circled the facts, the details, the words that might hold the key to this mystery.  _Smell_. Discounting Lyosha and Raze, if someone had been in this room _,_ Rena would have smelled the perpetrator…and she had not, which suggested one of three things: One, she was lying for herself; two, she was lying for someone else; or three…she was telling the truth. The third the most unnerving option of all, for it meant that there was a third party walking these corridors.  _Someone who had a key to this prison_ …

… _and someone who had no scent._

 _o_ … _o_ … _o._

_Exile's Quarter. The Sewers. 7:45 am._

Meanwhile, far east of the Kerr household and as many feet down, Kolya was sitting on a sewage pipe, watching his allies at their work.  _The Blackmarks_.  _The enemies of Aleksey Itzhak and the sworn followers of a fallen leader._ There were over a dozen of them, scrubbing red tiles, cleaning red clothes, changing a red story. By the blood, he knew he had dreamed again…but for his trade, the Blackmarks had set things right.  _One of them making him repeat the alibi_ … _ten times in different ways. Different angles. He had been on "the other side of the den, working with Caul and his sons. Like the lycans, he had seen a woman go down the tunnel_ … _an exile_ … _and after that_ … _nothing."_

But his dream told a different story.  _In the dream, the woman's name was Hannah_ … _and she let him follow her down the tunnel. She told him stories as she headed for work. Stories about America. The time she spent in New York before the coven threw her into exile. She was young in years, but old when they changed her_ … _too weak to kill humans and too common for the coven. 'Some life,' she said._  But when he asked about her life now, cleaning sewers, she laughed. ' _Better than that lot.'_

 _She was living on the harbour when it happened._ The stupidest thing she ever saw, a lycan boy running the chimneys at night, the deathdealers after him. Worst part of town, the place chock full of Bloods…and they could see the commotion from their balcony, some of the guests laughing. Pointing. He was heading straight for them…' _should we try and catch him_ ,' one of them said. ' _Hannah_ … _try and catch him. Go on.'_

 _Always, they chose the weakest among them to do the deed_ … _but what fun would it be otherwise?_   _So she caught him._ The lycan struggling under her nails, trying to bite her, trying to get away… Their host out on the terrace, infuriated, offended that such a thing could happen at one of his gatherings. An animal on his grounds…and the others circling, gentlemen and ladies, not a warrior among them, but the thrill showing in their teeth at being that close to a lycan that could not kill them. And in that moment, two hundred years from the day, she remembered what it was like to be human. What it was like to be a child, scared…running from the bogeyman before he ran them down…

…and before she knew it, she had pushed him away…not towards the circle, but the balcony.  _She pushed him_ … _and knowing what she'd done, she jumped._   _Both of them falling, her dress pulling her down, the fabric tearing as she tried to get out of the water._ The boy gone by the time she resurfaced, and the deathdealers coming…

"And then," he had asked. "What happened then?"

 _'I moved,'_ she said _. Philadelphia. Charleston. She hid with the outcasts, the beggars, the guttersnipes_ … _anyone the coven threw out. But it was dead life. No food. A burden. Only so far she could run before the coven would find her_ … _but_ _two years later, the lycans found her first. The same boy showed up in her hiding place, except this time, there was a man with him. A beast of a man_ … _a real lycan_ … _said he'd been watching her for two years now_ … _and if she wanted to come, there was a place on a ship for her. London. Exile's Quarter. A safehouse for the rest of her life in exchange for the life she saved: his son. From then on, she knew what was what. She learned. She read the history books. She earned her place_ … _her food. Her bed. Belongings. Savings. The lycans were good folk_ … _honest folk_ … _and she never regretted taking their offer. Not once in a hundred years._

_Such a strong sentiment._

Kolya let out a deep sigh, pleased that he could relive the memory one more time before he forgot _. Pleased to know that despite having killed her, he had liked Hannah._   _He had liked her words, the brashness in her voice. Blunt and full of fight. Vigorous. But now_ …

… _back to reality._

For Hannah's eyes were now in his hand, and just below his line of sight, the Little One was holding out a small wooden box filled with sawdust.  _This small lycan, the child of the Big One, wanted one of the eyes in his hand._ So he put one in her box, like charity, and threw the other into the water. The iris seeming to follow him as it floated away.  _It would burn once it reached the sun._  The Little One continued to stare at him and then took the box to the Big One. The Big One nodding, licking her lips before she added the bloody scent-card.  _Words written on the back this time. Words that would be found in a cellar on Poplar High Street_. Words that said, _"Have a pair of eyes for a candle, guv'ner. X."_

"Please to be knowing who is candle," he said from his perch, causing them all to turn, jerking their faces round like he had cawed at them.  _The same with his victims. Always surprised_ … _but what kind of killer would he be if he could not read their scratchings from here?_  His victims, for he knew they would one day be so, looked at each other…and then at the Big One.  _Their leader._  She pulled the little one close to her.  _Still angry over the match._  "Never you mind," she said, causing the fat to roll along her neck. "You just keep doing what you does…" She spat on the ground. "…and you keep your eyes to yourself, you hear?"

He shrugged, paying more attention to his paraffin canister than her English. "If I am keeping eye to myself, then eye would not be in box," he decided out loud, stepping down from his perch. _Not a very big problem that she would not answer. Blackmarks were a means to an end_ … _and candles were not good leverage for a killer. Only matches and paraffin._  "…and I am needing proof of access…you have?" Impatient, he held his hand out, waiting with the unlit match, his bluntness always catching them by surprise, so that before she knew it, the Big One had shifted an eye around, and then handed him the prize…the price for Hannah's head: a small folded cloth…linen from the house of a gentleman.

_Promising._

He unfolded the cloth in his palm, and then breathed…relief. Joy.  _A mutual exchange_ … _political for them_ … _and personal for him._  The cloth falling to the grease and the slime as he held the coveted item up high, watching it glint in what light there was.  _The pendant. His lady's pendant, the one she had worn in Paris_. The final proof that the Blackmarks had access to her prison. Proof that he would kill for them as many times as it took…and that in half a year, they would take his tarnished gift to her, the silver key burning a hole in his stomach, and if he could find it…the blood waiting for her in the city, the deeper part of his mind dreaming over and over how this arrangement would end in blood. _His arrangement with the Blackmarks. His arrangement with the bloodseer. So much blood._

"Is that it?" The Big One was losing her nerve. "Is that what you wanted?"

He blinked, his mind taken out of its fervour, his eyes looking down at her. "Da," he said, politely holding his hand out to shake. "I am thinking we have arrangement. Good arrangement." The Big One shaking his hand…and he, for now, leaving them all with a smile, still holding the unlit match, backing away from the paraffin and the blood, his thoughts forgetting Hannah, and already turning to his next victim.  _His next dream. Another woman. Another whore. Older than Sarah Henderson. Older than Mary Parker_ …

… _and worthy of another death in the morning._


	38. Smell the Mouse

**Chapter XXXVIII: Smell the Mouse**

_The London Den. Two hours later._

The clock chimed the hour.  _Ten o'clock._ Langley was in the main hall, keeping busy despite fatigue, as ever listening for the master's bell to ring.  _Three days since he'd heard it; three days since he'd pressed a suit, mended a button, or made a bed._ Instead, he dusted, swept, crawled, mopped—anything to keep Mrs. Fulligan from throwing him downstairs.  _She smelled mould; he cleaned mould. She smelled mice; he hunted mice._  Through the kitchens, down the hallway, round the bend, following his nose until instinct told him it was cowering in the left-hand corner of the main hall, directly beneath the hat rack.  _He could get used to this job. Spending his days in the hallway, ceilings higher than a lamppost, the carpet warm, bits of light coming down from the stained glass, the kitchen smells coming from the right._

_Only problem was the company._

_Fanny._

She kept following him. She and that girl, Grace's daughter, always trailing after him round the hall, giggling whenever he had to bend over and check the corners.  _How was he supposed to get work done? Couldn't they see he was busy?_  Night and day, young ladies, old ladies…even the occasional love-sick boy, all trying to get into the master's quarters.  _Well he'd had it._   _No more. No one else. He knew how things wer_ e…and if Fanny wanted a piece of the master, she'd have to go run after him herself.

He was just bending over again when he heard the door-knocker, a great  _rap, rap, rap_  echoing down the front hall, faster than the mouse skittering out of reach, Fanny and the little one making themselves scarce.  _No footsteps. No butler running from the kitchens._ It was not his job to open the door, but it  _was_  snowing.  _Practically a blizzard._ Whoever was out there was probably hankering to get in here and if security had let them pass… _well then, they couldn't be that bad_ _could they?_

Holding his breath, he stepped forward, took hold of the great handle and opened the door. His hair flat in an instant, a great gust of wind pushing him off his feet as the whole of winter hit him in the gut. And then, though he had nothing to do with it, the door closed. The snow out of his face and above him, a hooded figure dusting the white from her shoulders. Perfume wafting with her every move and he lost in the scent. So clearly, the sweetest thing he'd ever smelled, not too strong, not too faint.

 _Just right_ …

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The Lycan Prisons. The Downstairs Office._

"Sir!"

"Blood almighty, soldier, what is it?" Arlington was bending over a mirror, examining his moustache with more care than he did his wife.  _Americans_ _. Always so hasty, his wife included._  "Don't you know how to knock?"

"Yes, sir." Taylor knocked his fist thrice against his superior's desk, his other hand shifting a small wooden box onto the table. "Permission to speak, sir?"

"Yes, yes, go on." Arlington waved a hand, picking up the trimmers and taking a snip off the right side.  _Almost a crime to trim the thing._

"I was… " He looked back through the door he had just come from. "…doing my rounds, sir." He swallowed. "You arranged for me to go to Poplar High Street this morning. Told me to get a more reliable description from Mrs. Grimsby…"

"I know what I said, soldier. Go on."

"Thing is, sir, I may have found something more…" For the first time in his life, no doubt, the boy seemed to weigh his words. "…more concrete "

"Of course, boy…we already know about the bone-shavings. You did a claw-rubbing?" Arlington trimmed the left side.  _Youth. Always running. Always trying to shock him. Three hundred years and he'd seen it all. They'd learn. Urgency was a way of life._

Taylor swallowed and then exhaled, his eyes a touch more silver, as though the excitement had gotten to him. "No, sir."

"Then  _what_?"

"She got a package this morning." He had started whispering. "It was addressed to you, sir…your pseudonym, the one Mrs. Grimsby knows, but…well…the box fell open in her living room and…" He looked sheepish. "…well the old lady, for sure, can't see very well anyway, plus the curtains were closed, so not too much in the way of burning…and in a way, sir, it's not as though I directly tampered with it "

"What are you trying to say, soldier?"

"The box, sir…" He indicated the small box he had put on the desk.  _The one that Arlington was paying no attention to._  " I put everything back, but…" He opened the lid, revealing the contents. "… _look_."

Arlington dropped his moustache-trimmers. "Blood take it." It was an eye. A perfectly round eye with only the singe marks to tell them what type of creature it was. That and the bloody scent-card with the words written on it.  _Another murder. Another vampire. This had to go straight to the top._  He stared at the eye, and then looked at Taylor. "…did you follow a scent? Anything, Taylor blood, fur, a direction there has to be something." He grabbed the boy by the cuff. "Did you follow a scent?"

Taylor licked his teeth. "That's just it, sir." He was just as unnerved. "You can smell it for yourself. There's no scent. Not even in the box. I don't know how they did it but there's no scent."

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_Back in the London Den. The Main Hall._

Langley blinked, rubbing his eyes, unable to take his eyes off the visitor. Her hood fell back, revealing a face of purest bliss.  _Auburn hair. Lips like a goddess_ … _like that painting Singe had shown him once._ The loveliest woman he'd ever seen…smiling as though she had a secret just for him. Him with his gangly arms and skinny face. At the thought, he went red, trying unsuccessfully to look at the ground.  _No cause for him to be looking at her like that. Shameful, in fact. He recognised that face, if only from afar. The leader of the Viennese Den_ … _and the ex-mistress of the lycan-master. It was said around the den, if anyone could have gotten ivory out of the lycan-master, it was her_ … _and him gawking at her like she was marrow. The Lady Allegra_ …

"Langley, is it?"

 _She knew his name._ His heart started beating faster.

Delicately, she began removing her gloves, finger by finger, shaking her hood when he tried to take her coat. "No, dear boy, this house is far colder than I remember it."  _She spoke English, but her accent was slightly_ … _different_ … _like she'd learned to cover something and you were never quite certain what._ She handed him her muff, a dark red to match the velvet she was wearing, all of it trimmed with fur.  _Sable._  "Tell me, is my husband back from his rounds?"

_Her husband._

_Raze._

Rendered mute, he shook his head. His mind was starting to panic, her question having reminded him of why he was the only one available to answer the door.  _No one was expecting her this early. She was meant to arrive this evening. He had to tell Mrs. Fulligan. The rooms were not ready. Where were her maids?_

"Oh." She was looking dreadfully disappointed. "Perhaps he's forgotten the time. Oh, what a shame. I was so sure he said this morning…"

Langley tried to make a sentence. "That would be unlikely, ma'am."

"All the same…" Smelling forlorn, she turned, her skirt making a wide sweep of the front hall, her finger running along a table as if looking for dust. "All this way, and no one to welcome me and I suppose Sabine is not back from her morning ride yet?"

"N-no, ma'am…"  _For someone who unintentionally arrived eight hours early, she seemed to know a lot about the den schedule._  "…but if it pleases you, I believe Mrs. Fulligan is…"

"Oh let us not trouble Mrs. Fulligan, dear boy." She touched his cheek. "That woman has enough on her shoulders without us spoiling her morning tea…" With the same finger, she indicated the ladies-bag she had dropped on the floor.  _Brown was so much more than 'brown' when it had roses and the bright red 'A' embroidered on the sides._  "Take my bags to my quarters and expect the rest of my things to arrive this afternoon."

"Right away, ma'am."  _Serving her felt like a privilege._  He dove for her bag, almost tripping over himself in his haste. Halfway up the stairs, he noticed her ladyship was not, in so many words, behind him. Instead, she had taken a seat on one of the hall-chairs, her eyes now casually directed at the ceiling.  _The western ceiling._

_She was waiting for something._

He panicked again.  _What to do? Had he missed something? A pack-leader visiting the London Den. A high-ranking official. Usually the lycan-master would be awake to welcome her_   _but it was morning. The lycan-master slept in the morning; everyone knew that, most of all, her ladyship. Was this excuse enough then to wake him?_   _Was it protocol?_

He blurted his next words, his voice sounding unusually high. "Shall I inform Mr. Kerr of your arrival, ma'am?"

"Mr. Kerr?" She looked towards the western ceiling again; her expression one of such sincerity that a lycan Bloodsweep could swear she'd never once thought of waking him. "What an engaging idea, Langley." She smiled, her teeth showing sharp and yet her smile so sweet. "Of course, I would not want to impose… "

"N-no, ma'am it would be my pleasure."

He felt awkward having said this.  _Only an idiot woke the lycan-master in the morning, whether it was a pack-leader or the Queen of England. It was worth it nonetheless._ She seemed so thankful for his trouble. Uncrossing her legs those glorious long legs she stood from her chair and idled up to him and then, to his eternal embarrassment and bliss, kissed him on the cheek, like a cat playing with a mouse.

"Thank you, Langley," she said, and with a flick of her dress, she was heading up the stairs and down the western corridor.  _Purposefully_ …

… _for a cat, at times, had greater things to play with than a mouse._


	39. Speak of the Devil

**Chapter XXXIX: Speak of the Devil**

_Twenty minutes later._

_Oh God._

Lucian cracked open one of his eyelids.  _Light. Everywhere._ His head swimming on the tiled floor, as the sun pierced his exterior. He was lying in the same position as the night before, the centre of his bathroom, his head directly beneath the roof lantern…except now, there were hot flecks of water stinging his face, and above him…a towering figure, its face too bright to look upon.

 _It occurred to him that he might be dead. Perhaps he had succeeded last night and this was hell. The devil taking the shape of a figure of light. The damned souls rising through the air, turning his dried vomit into a sea of undiscovered smells. Oh yes, this was what hell smelled like: blood-wine. Laudanum. Roses. A bit of duck_ … _and something sticky. Except stickiness was not a smell. Neither should it have been rising out of his stomach._

_Fair warning._

He tried to take hold of a chair leg and instead, hit glass…the sound of a bottle crashing to the ground, the stench growing a touch more foul as he wiped the tiles with orange preserve. It smelled like the majority had landed on his shirt, though to be fair, his eyes were closed, so for all he knew, some of it had landed on Allegra as well…in which case, it was a rousing success _._

For he knew it was Allegra. He could smell her. He could  _always_  smell her. And  _now_  he got to hear her voice in his ear… _Aleksey_ , she said…The words only just making it through the cracks. _Aleksey_ … _come now, wake up._ Her perfume in his face.  _Roses._ She was lightly tapping him across the cheek.  _But he'd be damned if he was going to let her wake him. Not when he was having such a good time on the floor._ His stomach a bit emptier, his hair a bit wetter, his mind drifting.  _If the vomit was to be trusted, then he was most definitely alive_ … _so what the devil had happened last night? Did someone stop him? Did he give up? Surely by now, he'd have the balls to kill himself_ …

The voice became louder.

 _That voice._ He inhaled. _How to describe it?_ In the one token, reserved for a special kind of hell, and in the other, deceptively charming, the sweetest German, a sound made of milk and honey, laughter and love, and beneath that, the hapless cries of drowning men.  _Not enough that he wanted to die, but it would seem she intended to witness the fact._ Her heels clicking on the tiles, moving his chair, picking up syringes, a discarded shirt, boots, a bottle or two…

Against his better judgment, he opened his eyes.

"We have been trying to wake you for a quarter of an hour," she said. The sentence was plain.  _Its speaker_ … _not so much._ He blinked, trying to focus through the light.  _Red lips, flawless skin, the occasional flash of teeth providing ample distraction for the eyes. If he were to take his inspection further, he might say their length was gauged by how much guilt she wished upon him_ …

"Were you intending to use this?" She pointed at the noose casually hanging above them.

 _Yes_...

… _and to answer her next question_ … _no, he was not feeling guilty about it either. Yes, he simply wanted to die. Was that such a problem for everyone?_ Almost snorting with the effort, he turned over.  _And what did it matter if it was a quarter of an hour or a century? He still wanted to kill himself_ … _so as far as that noose was concerned, any passage of time was just an expression of wasted opportunities._

"Oh for goodness's sake, Lyosha, stop being so difficult…" With her skirts in hand, Allegra made a tutting sound and stepped onto the chair. "…it would not have worked anyway. You know Raze always tampers with the latch." She began picking at the noose with a sharp nail, and to no one's surprise, it was the latch rather than the knot that came loose.

He felt the last of the air leaving his lungs.  _So much for killing himself._

"You're not killing yourself."

"Am I  _talking_  out loud?" He aimed his sarcasm at the ceiling.  _Oh yes, and that smudge in the corner of his vision. He could only assume it was the one person on earth who could heat bathwater, while so blatantly disobeying his instructions_. "Langley…am I addressing anyone by name, least of all you?"

"Uhm…" The smudge looked uncomfortable. "…n-no sir…"

"Then why the hell does Raze's  _wife_  keep answering me as though this were some sort of  _conversation_?" The aggression was uncalled for…but his head was pounding. The sleep was starting to fall away and as a result, he was paying for his crimes of the previous evening.

Attempting not to grimace too tightly, he took a firm grip on the bath edge and pulled himself up. Allegra was still standing on the chair.  _A sure sign he ought to end it if staring up the bottom of her skirts did nothing for him._ The room started to swerve. It was like finding his sea-legs and without warning, he found himself staring at a pool of unsteady water directly below, his hair hanging over, his reflection marked by ripples.

 _He liked water. Genuinely. Good for lots of things. Freezing, drowning_ … _except when Raze was around; then it was crap._ He heard a sigh.  _Clearly he was still talking out loud._ He must have been staring at the water longer than he realised, for someone tried to steady him, but he pushed the hand off…  _He didn't need help_ … _and though tempting it might be to take a long, hot soak, the need for sleep and solitude came higher in his list of priorities._

_Sleep._

_Solitude._

_Still, there was no mistaking the stench._   _Blood-wine, laudanum, dried vomit_ … _most of it in his hair. Hard to sleep with vomit in the hair_ … _he used to do it all the time, but that was a lifetime ago_ … _a different way of thinking. If everyone had vomit in their hair, then no one did_ …

"Uhm…yes, sir…"

He looked up from the water, briefly considering why Langley was standing so close…or Langley's hand rather… _a familiar hand, pale, twitchy, the same one that opened the door for every Jezebel and Delilah needing access to his bedroom_ …but he digressed. There was a bottle of scented oil in the boy's hand, the label wet, but still legible.

_Bay Rum._

He sounded it out a few times.  _Bay Rum. Rum Bay. Bayish Rum. A favourite among the upper class, a scent that reminded him of better days. Days when there was a novelty to his existence. Days when he used to leave the house, travel the world and enjoy himself._ But why enjoy himself when he could spend quality time with Allegra in his bathroom?  _Last time it was Jacqueline_ … _why not Jacqueline's mother next? Or Reinette? Maybe the lycan council could have a go_ …

Langley began to back away.

"How about some breakfast," Allegra murmured from the side, drawing his attention back to her. She was looking in a mirror, dabbing the side of her lips with a silk handkerchief _._ He began to wonder… _if a lycan-master vomits on a floor, how easy is it to explain whether he's eaten or not_ …

"I meant meat," she said, looking a mite impatient, peering at the vomit before folding her handkerchief and tucking it away in one of innumerable pockets on her person. "Some marrow or quail…something light?"

 _No_ …

"Well, at least we can get some fresh air…" Stepping on the chair again, she rattled the latch, trying to get the window open. "…of course, I'm not blaming  _you,_  Langley. The smell is hardly your fault…" She frowned and then gave up on the window, instead dipping her hand into a pocket and pulling out a tiny bottle of perfume. Out of all the things she had done, this was the first that genuinely made him uncomfortable. He felt his throat seize up. _He knew that bottle. He was familiar with it._

"You're not spraying that."

"Oh you're speaking to us now?" She turned. "Properly? Not just mumbling vicious anecdotes out of the corner of your mouth?" Without another word, she sprayed the perfume bottle twice, breathing deeply and waving her hand to make it spread faster.

He felt a vein pop on his forehead.

 _What the_ …

… _why the bloody_ … _hell_ … _was that necessary?_

 _She had just scented his bathroom with roses. Not just any roses_ … _her roses. And he knew that smell. He had lived with that smell and it stuck. Three weeks from now, they could have burned every piece of linen in the bathroom and that smell would still be here._ The urge to bite was getting stronger.  _Insults would not do. Not for a pack-leader. Not for the wife of_ … _Raze_ … _which of course did not bother him._   _Why should it? Why should it be a problem for his second-hand man to have married his ex-mistress?_ He was standing now. He had the distinct impression that one of his eyes was bloodshot.

Langley held out a towel _._

 _Oh good, because he wanted to wipe his face with it._ He took the scented towel, flung it at the wall, and then headed for the bedroom.  _His bathroom. His bedroom. His territory. Everyone else_ … _out._ The bed itself coming into view like a beacon of comfort.

 _Yes,_ he thought _. Yes, yes, yes_ …

He smeared himself into the new sheets, turned and then smeared himself again. Burying himself in the blankets, basking in the dark.  _Curtains drawn, sun banished._   _Allegra could show herself out._ His body already hastening towards sleep, his mind only waiting for the necessary signs of her passing.  _The first:_  a pair of heels walking from the bathroom, Langley's feet shuffling after.  _The second:_  Allegra bending over, touching his cheek, her dress briefly in view from the right side of his bed…and the last, the most satisfying of the three: the door shutting behind them, leaving only calm. Quiet. His back relaxing, his mind falling deeper into the bed's embrace…he was alone.

Only to be woken again by the sound of his armchair being dragged over to his bed, Allegra taking time only to dust off the crumbs before sitting, her feet apparently able to come and go in silence after having left her heels by the door. Already, she was eyeing the research at the side of his bed, the empty bottles, the syringes on his bedside table.  _He knew what came next. One of only two mistresses with the ability to comprehend when he needed quiet, and by that virtue, able to talk at specific intervals for the mere pleasure of irritating him._

"You read Norse poetry?"

"Get…out."

She sighed. "Oh come now, Lyosha, be reasonable." Using the poetry book, she began to fan herself. "You  _know_  I cannot abide with suicide…it is  _so_  unpleasant." She was speaking English, a sure sign that she wanted something.  _Last time it was an extra hour in Vienna so she and Raze could enjoy each other's company. Easier to throw her out and be done with it_ … _but then he'd have to get out of bed. Use energy. Waste time explaining to Raze why his wife had fallen three stories before being hacked into pieces with the blunt side of a book._

The book kept on fanning. "Do you want to know why I'm early," she asked.

_No._

"Well, it was a very frustrating experience," she replied, holding her wrist out, admiring the ivory bracelet just visible beneath the sleeve. Somehow the bathroom splashes had failed to touch her. "The Linemaster…on  _your_  end, mind you…said there was a limit to how many bags I could bring…" She sighed. "…so I took an earlier ship, rescheduled and gave my seat to my fifth trunk." She smiled at the bracelet. "Now I want your  _honest_  opinion…should I wear this tonight?" For a moment, she looked unsure. "Do you think it's too forward?"

 _Considering she was already married to the man, no, but he'd rather eat dirt than entertain her with a valid opinion._ " _Why_  don't you ask Jacqueline…" he suggested.  _Raze could ask no more of him. A helpful suggestion for the man's ever so helpful wife._  "…you can  _talk_  about it. Talk about bracelets…and perfume…you can yap at each other…"

She was still playing with the bracelet, by her expression, neglecting to notice the subtle hints he was giving her. "Yes of course," she said after a moment, the name clearly not on her list of priorities. "…Jacqueline, that poor girl, she's going to be reeling…"

He spoke without thinking. "From what?"

Allegra sank deeper in her chair. "The tears, the tension, the tragedy…ending a relationship is a frightful business, particularly with one so young…" For a moment, she paused, seeming to wait for his rebuttal.  _He had nothing for her. H_ _e could finally admit that with silence._  She looked disappointed. "…and of course I'll comfort her, Lyosha, but it doesn't mean I approve of what you've put her through."  _There._ She had judged him. She resumed her sweet demeanour. "…now where is she?"

"Downstairs," he said. "…without her mother." He hugged the pillow tighter.  _A sword might have been more useful. An axe._

 _He hated Jacqueline's mother. The damned woman had left for France. Her husband, Gautier, had left for France_ … _which meant Jacqueline was staying in London_ … _all winter_ … _which meant, this evening, thanks to the 'rules of curfew and safety', he'd have to break off a relationship and then officially live with the woman until spring._

_Just another note for his swansong, that being 'Fuck.'_

"Well, I did warn you…" Allegra had always been adept at spotting the power-hungry ones, being one herself. "…theatre, dinner, gifts…" She sniffed knowingly. "…even the Line Rumour thinks you're going to propose tonight…it only makes sense for the parents to leave her in your hands—if you get cold feet, it helps seal the deal…"

He could feel his face scrunching up in the pillow. "The Line  _what?_ "

" _Rumour_ ," she finished, her laughter soft. "…that's what they're calling it, these days. The village gossip." She pulled a nail file out of his left drawer, clearly still at home in his bedroom. "Apparently, your love-life is quite popular among the common folk."

" _Tosh_ …"

"If only." She smirked. "And to be fair, Lyosha, what point is there in surviving a war if we have nothing to talk about afterwards?" With a deft hand, she began shaping the nails. "Though I suppose, Jacqueline ought to have read her history…everyone knows you bail at the last minute…" Her eye shifted to give him a chiding look before resuming the act of lounging. "…but then who can blame her? All of us think we have something until you leave us weeping on the floor."

"…or tearing out a wall."

"Semantics." With a final brush of the nail, she put down the file. "Now how are we…"  _He hated it when she said 'we'._ Despite the belligerent eye he was giving her, she touched his forehead. "Tired, morose…there's a bit more colour in your eyes…not so silver anymore…"

"Like fuck…"

"Well no one is perfect…" Picking up the file again, she sat back, resuming her manicure. "I was reading some of my letters the other day and Raze had some frightful things to say about the past few weeks. Other than the murders, I mean…" She waved that aside. "Apparently, you've been spending a great deal of time in the East Wing…far more than is necessary…"

"Who told you that?" His temper rose for a split second.  _All this business about the line rumour was making him uncomfortable. Like people were watching him. Not just the investors and pack-leaders, but_ … _everyone._

"Raze." She was looking sorry for him.

His temper settled _. Yes, she had said Raze, hadn't she_ … _blood he was tired._ "When?"

"Tuesday, although I just found out about the visits this morning—I mean,  _really_  Lyosha…" For Allegra, once a cat was out of the bag, she preferred to let it saunter rather than dart. "…Raze says you've been  _harrowing_  the poor woman for days now…" She paused, waiting for him to fill in the gap with details.

_Not on his life._

She pursed her lips and then continued, folding her hands in her lap, crossing her legs and looking down upon him, the very image of a Victorian lady on her way to a charity ball. "In any case, you can imagine my  _distress_  when I heard." She sat up straighter, preparing herself to relay her distress. "We've been working so hard to get you in the right frame of mind, and then I receive this letter from Raze, asking if I'd come early, saying you've upped your dosage…" She waved a hand, making a scoffing noise. "Bad dreams. Insomnia. Alcoholism…"

"Read it again, nanny…"

"Aleksey, this is  _serious_." Sniffing, Allegra bent over, taking the tone of a chiding nun, retrieving an empty bottle from the carpet. "You've only been home for two weeks, and this is the fourth bottle I've found. The  _fourth_ …you use more opium than a private hospital. Of course you are going to suffer for it."

His silence made her trail off…and her words, though kind in theory, made little impact.  _There was nothing as tedious as a married couple taking pity on a solitary drug-addict._ And for the umpteenth time, they were focusing on the wrong issue. _Drug addict, yes. Insomniac, yes. Even suicidal_ … _but not an alcoholic._ Rather than explain the difference, he dug deeper into his bed, trying to signal the end of the conversation.  _Maybe she would just leave_ …

… _get tired of him._

_Walk away._

He heard glasses tinkling against each other.  _Allegra's conversation always came in stages, the likely topic was now going to be Reinette since they'd already covered fashion and hopeless charity._ She was pouring herself a drink _._  "So exactly  _why_  is she in the East Wing?"

"Are we still talking?" He was unable to conjure interest in his voice.  _Maybe he could suffocate himself._ He started to push down upon the pillow.

"Yes…" She waved her drink. "…and Raze told me to keep  _you_  talking until he got back from his rounds." She was wandering among his things, picking up a knife, putting it down…taking a moment to fondle his curtains. "…and since you're an open book, we may as well talk about something that interests us both. Diversion. Something to take your mind off…" She gave a light laugh. "…and she  _does_  take your mind off, Lyosha, heaven knows why…"

_He was not an open book. He was dark, mysterious, and irritated._

"And for the life of me…" She was sauntering around the room now. "…I cannot  _imagine_  what possessed you. You bargain for an exile, you give her clothes, tell me she has no memory, and suddenly, a few weeks later, I hear…" She paused for impact. "…not from Raze, mind you, but from my maid, Lyosha…my  _maid_ …" She continued. "…that you're keeping a vampire…you're keeping _her_ …in the East Wing…and that  _every_  lycan under the sun knows about it. That…" She was winding herself up. "…that you made some sort of…official statement…what were you thinking? And then Raze keeps pointing me in the other direction whenever I ask for details.…I mean,  _who_  is she… _what_  is she…does she know something? Is she some sort of weapon…am I not part of this political intrigue?"

The urge to curl up in a ball was now overwhelming. He was having tremendous difficulty keeping his eyes open.  _Once a devil-woman, always a devil-woman_ … _and this one had spent_ _four hundred and thirty-one_ _years lounging around in his private and political life, for some godforsaken reason, assuming she had a stake in it._

"…and you never said she'd be in the  _house_ , Lyosha. What are the investors going to think? Four decades of getting them to think you're predictable, and then you bring home this pet…and it would be one thing, if you'd included me with everything, but no…dress her, Allegra…that's all we need from you…clothes…"

" _Allegra_ …" He was sitting up. He was  _so_  tired…he could barely even raise his neck…and he  _knew_  there was no end in sight.  _She would go on…and on…and on. Two lifetimes from now, she would still be talking about Reinette._ _Fortunately, however much he might dislike her as 'Raze's wife,' four hundred and thirty-one years had taught him that not only did it pay to skip all the drama, but at the end of the day, she was thirty-eight when she was first Changed_ _. Not twenty-four. Not twenty-seven. Thirty_ … _eight_. "…she's a fucking blood-seer. Alright?"

Allegra's eyes widened. "What?" She closed her mouth. "I thought they were all hunted down. You said they were executed…" She blinked. "You said they were all  _men_ …"

He held a hand up…both hands up. "Just…just keep it…to yourself…" He rolled over.  _This was torture. She had tortured it out of him. And to think he'd been appreciative of Raze three nights ago. The man would rue the day he sent for his wife to take care of depression._  "Just…ask Raze. Ask him…and tell him everything you're telling me…and then we'll discuss it…"

"But she'll need to be…"

"I know." He was falling asleep. _Reinette would need to be fully integrated before they could even consider shoving her in front of the lycan council._ It was a cultural conversion, a very subtle means of drawing new exiles into the lycan way of thinking, making certain that they truly believed in the lycan cause. The only way the council would overlook a lack of integration is if she spent the rest of her natural life in prison or was dead. Fairly simple. In a manner of speaking, he had started from the very moment he stuck her in that room. Twenty years languishing in a vampire catacomb, and instead of a prison, her lycan captor entertains her with a boudoir. Clothing. Fine food.

"But she has no…"

"We're working on it," he mumbled through the pillow. "That's why I was interrogating her in the mornings…"

She might have no memories, but he assumed they could do something about that over the next few months. Particularly if Allegra was involved…she could just talk her way into Reinette's brain. That way, he could spend his time doing all the "normal" things a lycan-master ought to be doing, like not committing suicide before Christmas. _  
_

"Lyosha…" He stirred, forcing an eye open and looking to his right. Allegra was kneeling beside the bed, looking like someone had just given her a bone. _Perhaps she would forgive him now for going over her head while planning Amelia's assassination._  "…if I leave the room, will you be alright?"

He tried to avoid sarcasm. "No."

_Utter failure._

She didn't seem to notice. "Only I was thinking of going to the East Wing for a minute. I wanted to see if Reinette's awake…" She bit her lip in a manner that told him she no longer knew how to be unattractive. "…you wouldn't mind if I left you alone, would you?" She was starting to smooth his bedsheets. "…only I thought she might like a proper visit after your escapades. You know, one woman to another…and I know Sabine has grown very fond of her in the last few weeks, which is not surprising because she was telling me—in a letter, of course—that other than riding, there's really nothing else to do here but…"

"Just…" He wanted to rip out an eye. "…go."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," she murmured, refusing to show tension, as if politeness had been part of his tone. "The longer you can sleep, the better you'll be feeling." She straightened the sheet over him, a sense of contentment settling upon her scent. "Will I see you this evening?"

Half asleep, he thwacked her fingers away.  _She kept touching his forehead._

"Dinner at seven…" She tucked in the blanket and left a glazed ceramic bowl beside his bed.  _Because clearly_ that _would be the first item that he would choose to throw up in. Not the floor. Not out the window. No, he'd throw up in a sixteenth-century Ming dynasty tea bowl._  "…and I'm glad you're feeling better."

_He was not._

"Although I must warn you, Lyosha…" She beamed at him while heading for the door. "…you may be hard-pressed to find another pair of legs before the new year."

" _Goodnight_ , Allegra…"

The door closed soft behind her, as though his grimace had not changed to a snarl. Her legs now permanently beyond his reach and his conscience far from caring. He was too exhausted to care. Staring at the ceiling and then burying his face until his lungs began to burn.  _It was going to be an unreasonably long winter,_ he realised bitterly.


	40. Fireworks and Ivory

**Chapter XL: Fireworks and Ivory**

_Nine hours later._

He woke to find himself still breathing. Alone with only a Ming dynasty tea bowl to suggest he was still unwell. His head pounding until he chose to silence it, searching for his drug until he realised how thorough Allegra had been with his quarters. Choosing then to accept the pounding in his head, he bathed, dressed, and by seven, somehow made his way to the dining hall without hurting himself. By eight, he was starting to regret his decision to sit near a china cabinet. By ten, any regrets that he might have had were now dying along with the faint hope that he might leave this room before midnight.

In a word, _sublime_.

He tried to focus on the present. _Jacqueline_. She was pacing between the wall and her quarry of porcelain, her dress barely able to keep up with her nails. By logic, this was a problem that needed rectifying. "Jacqueline…" He knew it would be a mistake to look at his watch. "…if we could just sit down and discuss this like …"

 _Crash!_ An immaculate 17th century Japanese Imari vase hit the wall, shattering into eight concentric pieces, the point of impact suggesting an aim that required improvement. "Are you calling me a _child,_ Alexander?"

 _Was he calling her a child_ , he wondered. _No._

_Yes._

_Perhaps._

His eye twitched.

In previous years, he might have been good at this. Knowing what to say and how to say it. Knowing when to stand and flinch and drop his shoulders. Knowing how to demonstrate that this moment was as 'painful' for him as it was for her. But it was hard to flinch. Hard to engage, even with the graveyard of broken china; the most he could conjure being a vague sense of not regret, but cold awareness over how distraught Mrs Fulligan was going to be come morning…

… _and even that was measured._

"No," he said. _Hardly a point in masking his scent, but then he'd rather lie and spend three hours explaining himself than tell the truth and spend six._ The dining hall was deserted save for themselves, the tablecloth soaked in blood, their meal long since abandoned in a field of war. _Only a single glass standing._ "I am…" It was taking all of his patience not to raise his voice."…merely indicating that if you sit down and listen to what I am saying…" __Broken glass everywhere.__ He was running the palm of his hand along the table _. Maybe he could cut something by accident_. "…then perhaps we can come to some…"

A plate crashed to the floor. _Wedgwood. 18th century._ "…because I am _not_ a child…"

He stared at the plate. "Hence the reason I answered in the _negative_ …"

"Then why are you doing this?" Her voice was getting scratchy. The prim English accent marred by a stuffy nose. "…why would you say such things?" She moaned wretchedly, looking up at the ceiling with red eyes. "I am…always trying to connect with you… _always_ …but you never give me a chance. You _never_ want to talk to me."

"If you could _sit_ _down_ , maybe we could talk about it," he snapped.

"Sit down?" She made a sound, somewhere between a fuming sob and an incoherent whine. "Sit down, Jacqueline… _slow_ down, Jacqueline…our lives are _always_ about your pace…"

_He never said that._

She was growing hysterical, pacing back and forth, the frenetic buzz riding on a wave of despair. The tears were flowing again. "And you think I don't know what you say behind my back?" she asked. "I try to be patient. I try to be there for you…and _this_ is what I get?" With a sob, she sliced off her glove, holding her arm out for the world to see. "A bracelet," she sobbed. "A _golden_ bracelet, while some hag walks around this household with _your_ ivory…" Another plate struck the wall. "…don't even try and deny it, Alexander. I _know_ she still has it…"

_Right._

He was getting very tired of this room.

Never mind that it was _Sabine_ that gave Reinette the ivory. Never mind that it was a perfectly common gift for a lycan child _. A symbol of blood. The kind of symbol that remained in one's family unless one happened to be looking for more family._ Never mind that _he,_ in the spirit of a moment, had reached out and handed it to a blood-forsaken nine-year-old for jumping out of a train. That she… _not_ _him_ …had walked into a prison and handed that gift to a vampire.

_No._

_They all skipped that step._

They all jumped to 'Lucian, why does a vampire prisoner have your entirely-distinct, everyone-knows-that-once-belonged-to-you ivory comb? Did you hand it to her?' For bloods' sake, it was farcical. Under what moon would he avoid matrimony for almost five hundred years, and then inexplicably hand a stranger a piece of ivory? _Not just any stranger, but an ancient, foul-mouthed piece of vampire ash…_

And for once, the thought truly gave him pause. _For she, out of all the women he had explained this to, was probably the one person who would understand the issue_. _She would see the air of the ridiculous_ _. She would grasp the joke, probably even scoff at this point_ … _and without any awkward hints of "did you really mean to give that to me through Sabine," she would hand him the comb and they would be done with it._

 _Hell_ …

… _she had even offered to give it back to him._ He was massaging his temples again. He had to stop doing that. It gave away his stress-levels to the enemy, and in this case, Jacqueline was the enemy. _He should have just taken the comb back_ … _but at the time, he had been lying to himself over the kinds of conclusions people could draw from an old vampire and a strapping "young" lycan sharing a blood-forsaken ivory comb._

"I hate you…" Jacqueline sniffed, wiping her nose roughly against her arm. "…and I _hope_ you enjoy her." He almost laughed out loud at that. _Things were getting ugly. She was jumping between hatred and pleading._ "And why would you give it to her?" she asked. "Have I not satisfied you?"

"For the last time, Jacqueline, I did… _not_ …give it to her…" He was massaging his knuckles. _The bones were starting to tighten._ He had already factored the reasons for retaining decorum in this matter, despite his feelings on the subject…despite his general _lack_ of feeling on the subject… "…I gave it to Sabine." He looked up, enunciating the name. "And Sa-bine…who is _nine_ and therefore in possession of _very_ few faculties…gave it to our most recent guest."

She moaned to the ceiling. "Then you knew…" Her face was on the verge of crumpling. "…all this time, you knew what I wanted…and you gave it away to that child. Like it was meaningless. You _used_ me…"

"Used you?" He narrowly avoided scoffing. "In what century did I use you when our first meeting involved you crawling _naked_ into my bed after climbing up a balcony window…"

"I _earned_ my place in your bed." She pointed bluntly towards her chest. "…I _earned_ it."

"Oh for blood's sake, Jacqueline…" He could feel his face threatening to spasm. "…is that all this is to you? Earning your keep? Honestly…tell me you enjoy it because I'm having difficulty understanding the difference between your tactics and that of a first-class…"

Before he could finish the sentence, a tremendous knock drew their attention to the ceiling. As though someone had accidentally dropped a giant weight upon the floor. Failing to understand the significance, Jacqueline sniffed and then picked up another plate. Fully aware of the significance, he grimaced at the ceiling, which by chance happened to be directly under Allegra's quarters, and then sat back with a roll of the eyes.

_Fine._

They had discussed the subject of civility in the minutes before dinner…the minutes before Allegra had abandoned him to the dogs before dinner. Regardless of how comfortable he was with ending his own life…regardless of how incensed he was that some bastard was murdering exiles on his watch…regardless of that, he needed to remember that not everyone had the capacity to sustain his current mood.

_Least of all a girl of twenty._

Her lips cracked and parched. Once so innocent and now strained by something she had not known she could feel. "Jacqueline, it is over," he said. "…and to give you any other impression would be…wrong." He was almost sorry for it. "You were of…great comfort…to me in the past year, but as time passes, people grow apart…"

"But we have…"

 _Very little in common,_ he realised, cutting her off with the scrape of his chair being pushed back. "Do you want to _know_ what we have?" he asked. He was trying to be civil about this. Trying to say this as kindly as he could. But he was tired. He was ready to go back to his murder inquiry. His shoulders starting to hang, his head starting to slouch for he was tired of discussing this issue. _And why discuss it when he could just show her?_

_All of it._

_The one thing she had never smelled on him, a scent that had clung to him for the past five hundred years, instilling fear in every lycan soldier that happened to cross him in the Underground; something he had gotten so used to hiding that it had become second nature for him to keep it under wraps in polite society._

He raised his arms. " _That_ is what we have," he said. "Every day, every hour _…that_ is what you do not see." _The histories had once described it as the scent of death walking. _To him, it smelled like ash.__ _  
_

Her lip was quivering. _She was starting to smell it, but there was a stubbornness in her scent. She did not want to believe._ She had picked up the bracelet again. "But you gave this to me…on my birthday…you gave it to _me_ …" There was an awkward hiccuping sound coming from her throat. "I-I thought you were going to…" She could not finish, choking and sputtering on the sentence _._ "…I thought you loved me…"

"Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it?"

He said it easily. _Hardly the cruellest of words_ …and yet he could have heard a pin drop upstairs. Half a second later, he began to realise that perhaps he should have answered differently… _and yet why should he? Why should he pretend that he was anything but brusque and callous?_

That Jacqueline had not gone white. That the more she stared at him…the more she took in his scent, the more he realised that she had not even suspected. _That she_ … _in all her innocence and flippancy_ … _had seen him at face-value. She had believed his lies. The net of furs and seduction wound around her shoulders_ …and then without expecting to, he began to feel a small niggling sense of not regret but, doubt over his actions. His conscience starting to count how many lies he had told her in the past year _._ How many times he had disregarded her when she was trying to share something with him. The lady even going so far as to spend time with a child that she could not stand. How many times had he…

_No._

_He did not have time for guilt, and he did not have the energy to count the ways he had been cruel to Jacqueline. For that matter,_ he reasoned to himself _, i_ _t was not cruelty. It was a wake-up call. A reminder that life was not always kind, and that to expect was not always to receive; if there was anything he could teach anyone about life, it was that._

"Enough, Jacqueline." He was finished with this evening, and his voice did not waver. "Your gifts, your clothes, and for the winter, your rooms are your own, but the night is almost over…what more would you have from me?"

There was a long silence. A stunned silence before she started to shake, the anger slipping away in the wake of a harsh truth. _He was ending it._ Powder and paint mingling with tears, her beauty, for the first time, marred by turmoil. "I can…" She was hugging her arm. "…I can be different…"

"It would not matter."

"But…" She looked lost. The tears turning into a waterfall."…how c-can you do this to me," she asked softly. Her body racked with sobs, her fingers wrapped around the bracelet he had given her a week ago, holding it tightly _._ Her legs gave way. She slid to the floor, sobbing into her dress.

… _and there it was. The final note of their swan song._

_Fuck._

_o_ … _o_ … _o_

He left soon after.

 _And yet he did not get very far._ The long walk through the dining hall taking less than thirty seconds. The act of getting his scent back in order taking a mere ten. The moment of doubt taking one as he listened to the sobs behind him. The three seconds that it took to open and close the door in relative silence. And then, with the door closed behind him, the split-second that it took to sense a presence…so that without even looking, he reached out a hand, took the girl by the arm and pulled her out from behind the dusty threads of a French pastoral tapestry. _Red hair. Grey eyes._

" _You_." Leaning down, he tapped her on the chin. "How long have you been listening?"

She shrugged, rubbing one of her eyes. "Not long." Silver globes in the dark. "I'm tired."

"You're lying, that's what." Eager to be gone from this hallway, he started off in the first direction he could think of… _right_. Sabine dutifully followed, but her attentions were not moving in the same direction. _What the devil was wrong with her? She was a child_ … _and children had simple needs._ "Have you eaten?"

She shook her head.

"Why not?"

She mumbled something. ' _Because_ … _' Hardly an explanation._

" _Because_ …you were…" He spoke slowly, trying to coax the answer from her. Like questioning a prisoner that he could neither mistreat or insult; needless to say, it was difficult.

She mumbled the sentence again, rubbing her ear this time. _Completely unintelligible._ He gave up. They turned the corner. Her stomach growled. _Oh for fuck's sake_ … He turned around. _They'd have to go back the way they came_ … _past the dining hall and down to the kitchens. Servant's entrance might be quicker_ …He felt a hand tugging his shirt. He looked down. _Grey orbs. They were nearing candles. Easier to see in the dark._

She cocked her head, squinting up at him. "What does…" She stumbled over a word. "…mean?"

"Say again?"

"Faculties…" She sounded the word out slowly, a single English word in the midst of her German. "You said my name, and that I was nine and something about 'faculties'…" She scratched her ear. _Almost healed._ "…what does ' _faculties_ ' mean?"

 _Right. He'd actually said she had 'few faculties', but that was beside the point._ He stopped, leaning over so they were eye to eye. "It means you were standing behind a tapestry during a private conversation, and by some coincidence, you became completely deaf in both ears and heard nothing." He touched her ear. "Understood?"

She nodded.

 _Excellent._ They set off again. At best, he could leave her with Bess. _At worst_ , _one of the kitchen maids. Not to say that he was not inclined towards spending time with Sabine, but_ …

… _he was busy._

 _Depressed. Suicidal._ _And_ _to be honest, it was starting to dawn on him that _…_ really…he was not the greatest influence on children anyway. Rena was a drug-addict and the last time he spent time with Sabine, it had ended with her being forced to jump out of a moving train. In fact_… He quickened the pace. … _it would probably be best if she spent the majority of her time in the company of Allegra_ _from now on_ … _which was good. He was doing the right thing for once._

The kitchen was directly in front of them, yet before even reaching for the door, he felt the hand tugging his shirt again. _Blast_. _She was like a leech_. He exhaled and looked down. _Grey orbs. Identical to his own._ "What now?"

She squinted. "What does 'fuck' mean?"

 _Right_. _  
_

_o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The East Wing. Twenty minutes later._

Reinette was standing on a stool, trying to look over her shoulder. There were no mirrors, but she was still curious. Unable to control herself, she reached behind her. "Is it…"

"Not yet…" Allegra lightly tapped her fingers away. She had a mouthful of pins, but that could hardly stop her from talking. "…you'll see in a minute. Rena, the other colour, please." She pointed. 'Yes, the darker one. Quickly now before we are bombarded by men."

From behind, she heard a quiet rustle. Rena was holding the cloth up against her waist, the silent helper as Allegra pinned everything in place, her hands as capable as any seamstress. It was all very…strange…but certainly worth it for the sake of doing something other than languages and memory. Plus…she _liked_ Allegra. She had not meant to like her…but she did.

It had started this morning. As was her custom, while waiting on Lucian's pleasure—whomever that might be at this hour—she had turned her attention to the memory book—blood knew why she tried—when there was a knock on the door.

_A quiet knock._

_Which in itself was hard to decipher._ Her teacher, Singe, was always escorted by Rena…and her captor, Lucian, was unfamiliar with the concept of knocking. It was out of his jurisdiction. He fiddled with keys, he entered in silence, or he barged loudly. _He never knocked._ In the interim, she had looked to Rena and Rena had looked to her. _Neither of them was expecting any one._ So Rena had listened carefully at the door, asked for an identification, heard a reply…and then shrugged, opening the door to reveal their guest…

_Allegra._

To say she had been surprised was an understatement…the woman had been kind to her in Vienna, but they were hardly long-lost friends. _Plus she was_ … She had almost sighed _._ … _attractive Particularly this morning. Not exactly the kind of person one wanted to entertain when one had the face of a septuagenarian and had just woken up_. And yet…she had been charmed. The woman had entered the room, embraced her like a daughter, and…"visited" was the word.

Instead of roughly handling her things, Allegra had pointed, requested, and admired. For the first time since Lucian had locked her up, she felt like she was…home. From there it had been one thing after another. Rather than keeping her awake all morning, Allegra had suggested they continue the visit in the evening when she would be better-rested. And true to her word, she had returned just after seven…with breakfast.

Spiced blood, a small gift of soap from Vienna, a few garments that Allegra wished her to try on and before she knew it, every detail of the past month had come out of her mouth. The highs and lows, the occasional dreariness of being in the same room, the lack of companionship at times…and then there was the pendant. _A subject she hesitated to speak on_ … _for what was there to say? And who was there to say it to? Who was there to care that she felt unnerved and distrustful when she remained a prisoner in the household of strangers? To offer a complaint over the loss of an item bordered on the ridiculous._

Even now she was thinking about it. _Was it important? Not really. Would anyone care? Not really. Rena had not even told anyone._ And even if she had wanted to speak, she lost her chance…for behind them all, the door opened, revealing… _well_ … _they all knew who it was._

He was looking particularly grim, if not harrowed around the temples. There was blood staining his cravat. Without comment, he kicked the door shut with the back of his boot and stalked over to the one of the chairs, shoving off most of her belongings and taking a seat. He then proceeded to stoke the grate, the absence of heat seeming to offend him on some level. _Not that anyone expected him to say anything. He was clearly there for the sake of not being somewhere else._

Allegra snipped a thread. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"How is she?" There were still pins her mouth.

" _Fine_."

"She did not sound _fine_."

"How would you know?" He sat forward. "For some reason, I can't remember how you phrased it in that letter of yours…but oh wait, let me think…I _know_. 'I will _comfort_ her, Lyosha. Wait until I _arrive_ , Lyosha'…why the devil was I supposed to wait if you weren't even going to be there?"

"I _was_ going to be there…" Allegra smiled warmly. "…but then I promised Reinette I'd spend the evening with her…"

"Yes, because that was my _biggest_ concern this evening," he grunted. "While I step on the dreams of this twenty-year old child, can you make sure Reinette's hem-line is looked after? And oh…by the by, send Sabine round to do some spying." He paused. "This may be a shock for you, but she's in bed…" He pointed at himself. _"I_ put her there…"

"Well done, darling," she smirked. "…would you like an ivory bracelet?"

" _To hell_ with your ivory," he said curtly. "…and I don't care if he's your _mate_ , Allegra—I don't care if he's _my_ mate—if I _ever_ find out how you made a high-ranking officer stand directly above a ceiling and _eavesdrop_ on his superior, then you will rue the day you choose to have children…"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Lyosha, what do you take me for?" Allegra rolled her eyes. "Sabine snuck out of bed, and you know full well I would never have asked Raze to do something so vulgar…" She poked around in the small box Reinette was holding, finally settling on a slightly sharper and much longer needle. "…and it's not like Greta doesn't know you can be vicious, Lyosha…she was merely keeping an eye on things…"

He inhaled. "Greta?"

She nodded. "Yes, _Greta_. She's been my maid for almost two hundred years now, Lyosha. You once propositioned her while we were still together, so I'd think you'd remember her name by now…" She started searching for another pin.

There was silence.

Reinette continued rolling the box's ribbon around her finger. Between them, Allegra and Rena had already filled her in on the details of what was going on below. Lucian seemed to have already taken it as a given that she knew…but for some reason, she had a feeling that "Greta" would not go over so well. His eyes had changed slightly. The vein in his neck starting to throb…

…and yet when he spoke, the language was beyond her reach. Starting to burn on his tongue, so that only by imagination could she suspect the subject matter had something to do with privacy, environment, and perhaps eavesdropping. _German_ , she decided, trying to keep up with the words. _Willst du mich,_ she repeated silently. _Willst du mich verarschen…it was a question._ The language rising and falling like an empire, his hand directing itself to the floor, the ceiling, herself, and then the blasted door, before visibly forcing itself to relax. Each nail retracting slowly, making her wonder at what point she'd begun to think more on language than the beast who spoke it.

"Alright, alright…" Allegra was already answering in Russian, barely giving him an eye before flicking her hand, like a fan waving away his teeth. "…case closed and it won't happen again." She drew herself up, turning to point at the new dress. It was dark-red, almost blood-red… "Now what do you think? It's about time we dressed her in something other than black and blue, wouldn't you say?"

_Apparently, he would not._

He eyed the dress, rolled his eyes, stood up and started picking through her pile of books. About three went on the floor before he picked up the one book she ought to have put away this morning. The small leather-bound book he had given her as a journal. _She had only written a few things._ _It did not matter. He could not read it. She had written in Saami. He was_ …he was flipping through it.

 _H_ _er heart went into her stomach. She felt sick_ … _he could not read it. What if he could read it? What if he had lied to her about his ability to read Saami?_ He dropped the book, moving on to something else. She relaxed. _Almost_. Now he was going through her studies, flipping through her English work…her French work. Going so far as to take a seat at her desk and start fiddling with the left drawer clearly having trouble accepting the fact that one side was a millimetre shorter than the other…

"Have you ever considered that maybe…she likes black," he muttered pointedly, out of the blue.

They all looked up. Rena looked at Allegra. _They both seemed to be having the same thought process_. _This had nothing to do with clothes, he was in a bad mood and treading softly would not go unrewarded._ There was a wary silence as he continued to examine the drawer, nudging it this way and that; and then Allegra indicated Reinette. "Of course, she may like black, Lyosha, but everyone enjoys change now and then…some variety of colour…"

He shut the drawer with a bang. "Colour?"

_They were definitely not talking about clothes anymore._

Rena was staring at the wall. Reinette was trying to look at the wall, but finding the whole endeavour unsuccessful. _And this was so much more fascinating than wallpaper. He appeared to be still going through the same phase as the last time she saw him._ He was riled. Uncomfortable. Dissatisfied. Entirely sober. The smell of laudanum was almost…normal…all in all, it served him right. _She had slept like a baby this morning, and no thanks to him._

Allegra spoke patiently. "Lyosha, I do not think this is the time or the place to…"

"Reinette, correct me if I'm wrong…" He turned his attention to her for the first time. His eyes were grey, yet unsettling by virtue of their stillness. "…you're a fine lover of misery—if you had a choice, would you prefer _attention_ or fading into the background? Be honest."

"I…" She looked between them. _She was a prisoner between two wardens._ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rena give a slight shake of her head. _Don't answer._ She closed her mouth and then opened it again. "…I…don't know."

"Yes, you do," he scoffed. Like he was standing in front of a crowd of naysayers, preaching the rights of the few. "You know _exactly_ what the answer to that is, but you're blinded by the attentions of someone who only cares what you look like on a surface…when _really_ …" He practically hissed at Allegra. "…it does… _not_ …matter."

Allegra took a calculated step towards him, the width of her dress forcing him to step back unless he wanted to be trampled. "I think that is _enough_ , Lyosha…" She was speaking sharply for the first time that evening. "…you may be in a hideous mood, but that does not mean you have to bully the rest of us into tiptoeing around your temper. If Reinette is going to be a member of this household, then she must _dress_ like a member of this household." She turned, practically elbowing him out of the way before straightening the hem. "Now if you would be _so_ good, I'd like to get started on the next dress before midnight."

"So _start_ ," he muttered, stalking back to the desk and pulling the entire drawer out.

Allegra turned. "In order to start…" She smiled warmly. Very warmly. "…I need to undress and redress Reinette, and that means you have to _leave_ …"

He emptied the contents of the drawer…on the floor. _One of the ink bottle shattered._ "In what century?"

"In _this_ century…" She snapped, staring at the mess, clearly starting to lose her sweet composure. "…because that's what _polite_ gentlemen do when ladies have business to attend to…"

He snorted. "Like I haven't already _seen_ all there is to offer in this room and half the ones in this household, and I'll have you know, it's not as _tempting_ as you all think it is…"

" _Enough_ …" There was a sound of extreme frustration from Allegra followed by a _thunking_ sound. She had thrown the pair of scissors she was holding. They were embedded in the floor…and if she had aimed a little to the right, they would have struck his hand. " _Lyosha_ ," she said. _Firmly_. "…you are leaving this room… _now_."

"Fine." He appeared to be completely comfortable with the request. He picked up his drawer, turned towards the door, and raised his arms. "I am _leaving_. But just so you know, it _would_ be a good idea to dress her in something dark…and warm…because in less than a month, she's going to want to blend in with the rocks at her backside…"

Allegra narrowed her eyes. " _What?_ "

"Sorry, I thought you _knew_ … He looked surprised, but perfectly happy to spoil someone else's evening since his was already ruined. "…you see, our guest here believes that she has no place in a lycan household. She believes…" And he laughed softly, seeming amused by the very concept so much that he wiped an eye. "…I'm sorry, where was I…oh yes…"

She felt her body freeze. _She knew what he was about to say. At the time she had believed it_ … _now she was not so sure._ Her cheeks had gone red. _Why would he bring this up now? In front of Allegra_ …

His eyes were trained on her. His voice pleasant to the ear, but his words like flint on steel. "…Reinette believes, and I _quote_ , that lycans are dogs, their habits are unclean, and that she would rather spend the rest of the year in a dark, rat-infested catacomb than become a permanent member of my household…" He cocked his head. "Is that not funny…" He nodded to himself. "… _yes_ , that _is_ amusing because it's not unlike the majority of _women_ that share my company…"

"You are _not_ still doing that, Lyosha…" Allegra's eyes were slits. The syrup had dripped from her voice, and there was iron to be found beneath. "…Raze told me about this nonsense, but he said you were out of your mind at the time. The terms are _not_ fair."

"Life is not fair, Allegra, and yet _somehow_ we all keep breathing…" It was like they had set off something deeper. _Something older that had nothing to do with the events going on in this room._ Opening the door, he turned and addressed her. _Silver._ "And _don't_ think your life stops down there, Reinette…we have a few empty cells, I'm sure you can find a table…the lessons continue, the work continues…" He was being remarkably callous. "…you can even take that dress if you like. That's what you want, isn't it…" There was disgust in his tone. "…a dress?"

She felt her throat tighten.

 _And though Allegra might see it as such, her shock had nothing to do with him putting her in a catacomb. It was the disdain. The scorn with which he stared at her_ … _and why should that be a surprise,_ she wondered. _Why had she been so conflicted over the past few weeks_ … _so that she doubted in her ability to strike. So that she feared his company_ … _the pleasure that she felt in his company._

_But no longer._

_Her dream had been clear. Lucian was not her ally. And yet_ …still she wondered, for it was…too much. His emotions were too…volatile. _He had been—she could not lie to herself—he had been kind since she had arrived in his household. But was kindness only a means of seeing how much laudanum he was taking? Had she forgotten what he was like in those first days of company? A monster in a carriage, unable to control himself unless his system was tinctured with laudanum?_

"Luka, how can you…" On her right, Allegra was sputtering. For the first time, he had made her speechless. "…but the tunnels…the _ceiling_ …"

"Not my problem." He smiled warmly at his nemesis. "If she wants to go it alone, then best of luck to her. She'll have a fabulous life on the streets. An exile among exiles, constantly seeking blood, _constantly_ in danger of the sun…" He looked at Reinette. _Directly_. "…and good luck getting out of England."

He slammed the door shut.

_Leaving silence._

All of them silent until they looked at one another. _And yet, she was the only one affected by this deal. She was the one who would have to live in a glorified tunnel in_ _less than a month_. He had put a deadline over her head…and for the first time in months, she was starting to wish she had never made the deal. _How difficult would it be? A year spent underground in a catacomb after all of this_ … _her bed. Her bath. Her desk_ … _the items from her desk_ … _on the floor_ … _where he had dumped them_ … _breaking one of the ink bottles_ … _before absconding with her drawer_ …

_Reality._

_It settled comfortably on her shoulders._

She inhaled, and then stepped down from the stool. _On the positive side, she could start calling him 'bastard' again without feeling a single jot of guilt._ "At least I'll have a dress," she said, forcing herself to smile at Allegra. Blood knew how she'd come to appreciate this woman in front of her. _Both women._

Allegra sat down. "He's had a bad week," she said. She looked tired.

Reinette nodded as though this were actual news to her. _The desk spoke for itself. So did the_ _laudanum, the alcohol, and his lack of manners._

Allegra was still talking. "You don't know the half of it, but…" She frowned, as though not sure whether to be bemused or worried. "…would you believe that he likes you?" She almost looked apologetic. "He has to because…breaking a bottle, slamming a door, and then fixing a drawer is only something he does when he's invested in something…whatever that means." She sat forward and reached out to touch her hand. "All the same, I do wish you had not seen this. I will speak to him…and perhaps we can get him to change his mind…"

"No…" Reinette gripped the hand and then shook her head, walking over to the mess on the floor. Trying to avoid staining her dress, she started picking up the pen, the books, the papers, the ink bottles…most of them thankfully sealed. "…I don't want him to change his mind." She started putting things on the desk. "I told you once that I would not be here long…and I meant it."

Allegra was watching her with a smile. "Yes, I believe you did…" The smile faded. "…but those catacombs, Reinette…...that level was closed for a reason."

Reinette was not listening. Rather, she was…feeling very calm all of a sudden. _The ink bottle had seeped over her book._ She held it up, letting it drip. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ … _the inked version. The flower was likely black at this point, but it was hardly worth checking._ She breathed out. _It was fine. The pendant was gone. The book was ruined. She would be sitting in a dark, freezing-cold hole for the next year_ … _but for now, she was feeling_ … _fine._

She looked back at Allegra. "It cannot be worse than this."

"Oh _yes_ it can," the lady replied, exhaling before she stood up. Even when scowling, she was beautiful…and yet it was not her way to be the devil-woman that Lucian always called her. Instead, she moved on…she kept to the shadows, and she survived the war. Touching her lips for a moment, she leaned back and then picked up the next bolt of cloth. _A dark green. Silk._ She looked at Rena. _Calculating_. "…I suppose we'll need something warmer then…"

"Wool," Rena said, almost imperceptibly. _They had enough stock for it_ …

Allegra sighed. "Yes, wool." _Grey wool._ She put down the silk. "…but so help me, I am lining it with silk. You can be warm and comfortable at the same time. He cannot stop me from doing that." She frowned, playing with the shape of the silk. "And we can look at this as a step forward. There is no one to see you…and you can wear anything you like, Reinette. Something…comfortable. Reformed. Something _m_ _odern_. We will keep you warm, but I'm afraid…" She looked up, appearing to be the bearer of bad news. "…the corset will have to go."

_Corset?_

Unwilling as yet to break the news to Allegra, Reinette only nodded in agreement, continuing to mop the rest of the ink up with a piece of paper. _In truth, this evening had been the first time she had worn a corset in three weeks._ That in itself was a good sign. A sign of things to come. She was breaking free…from her clothes, from this cage…from this household. Perhaps in one month, it would be too late for Lucian to realise that life without a corset was something she could do. Whereas she suspected the same could not be said of him and his laudanum.

 _And good luck dealing with that,_ she thought with a careless sniff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Willst du mich verarschen? (German) - Are you fucking with me?


	41. An Eye for a Candle

**Chapter XLI: An Eye for a Candle**

_The next evening._

It was a quarter past eight. The ladies of the East Wing restricted to the top floor, while far below ground, Lucian was hunkering down in a rock-faced, fifteen by twenty foot laboratory, the majority of space taken up by three tables, a bed, a chest, and a plethora of metallic instruments. The smell of formaldehyde and iodine melded easily with the blood-scent of an abandoned dinner, one that had hastily been sent back in an attempt to remove the odour. On one side of the room, Raze and Singe spoke amongst themselves, their words barely audible to the common ear, their attention on a small bowl centred on the main table between them.

Rather than joining the conversation, he was straddling a wooden stool, his head facing down and his eye trained on a brass microscope, the slide containing one of four blood-samples collected from Reinette over the past week. The view had much to do with the grimace he had been wearing since entering the room. _Vampires often displayed symptoms of acute anaemia, but Reinette's cells were oval-shaped, almost globular, far removed from the sickle they should have been._

He sat back, running a finger through his hair, scratching the side of his temple.  _Not the most surprising of revelations. He had always assumed most of the damage was permanent, but he had hoped there would be something they could do about the problem. Particularly now that Singe had a living, breathing vampire to observe for much of his evenings._

He flipped a page of the small chart near his right hand, Singe's report going into extensive detail _._  Other than the ageism and weakness, she suffered from little pain. Her memories returning slowly, her mind functioning well enough, her reflexes quicker than a human…yet the blood remained in stasis. Frozen in its state. The veins had become withered over the past twenty years, and the outlook was not positive.

_She was not healing._

"Lucian?"

He looked up.

From the other side of the room, Singe was eyeing him over his glasses, clearly losing patience…and for good reason. On the table before them was a porcelain dish holding a single eyeball _. The blue iris tinged with red, the whites no longer white but yellow._  The so-called 'eye without a scent' that Taylor had found in the home of Mrs. Grimsby. Something they had grappled over for a good twenty minutes before Singe shut the door, leaving little room for doubt as to the source.  _Unfortunately, he had yet to share it with them._ Lucian put the chart down.

"Well, the smell is obvious," he muttered.

Singe frowned. "You think it is obvious?" He looked at Raze. "He thinks it is obvious. Forgive my intellect, old friend, but…" Singe took a strong whiff of the air.  _They had been sniffing the bowl for ten minutes straight._ "How can a smell be obvious if you are the only one who smells it?"

" _Precisely_ …" He picked up a pair of forceps and started to open and close the ends. He soon grew tired of this, namely because Singe's eyes were starting to bore into his skull.  _"_ …and as far as who left it, I'd say it was someone remarkably small. Perhaps even the size of a child."  _The smaller the culprit the less likely a scent would be left with its passing._ He put the forceps down and angled his neck round, staring at Raze. "Victim's name?"

"Hannah Jacobsen." Raze had had this information for over six hours, however, between the two of them, they both knew he preferred to wait until Lucian had gathered the obvious before volunteering that which was unattainable by clues.  _A subtle means of keeping the lycan-master interested in that which he found 'obvious'._  "She failed to check in with the morning shift."

He got off the stool, starting to wander around the table, picking things up and putting them down again.  _It did not occur to him that perhaps this might have the same effect on Singe as Allegra had on him._ "Location?"

"Section E of the Exile's Quarter."

The mind worked quickly.  _He never entered the Exile's Quarter. He never consorted with exiles and those he brought to this underground world were meant to forget that he had existed beyond leading them across the border_ … _but he knew the layout_."Prostitute?"

"Sewage worker. We have no official record of her prior employment." As usual, the man had no need of the chart he was holding, the information memorised. _It might have been seen as impeccable from a younger warrior, but from Raze, it was both expected and taken for granted_. "Since joining the Quarter, she applied for a position above the sewage tunnels, however, my records have her living in Section E for almost four decades."

"And the note?"

"Written on the back of the scent-card. A slanting hand, suspiciously well-formed given the crudeness of the language." Raze paused, pronouncing the next word with an over-emphasis on the guttural sound. "'Have a pair of eyes for a candle… _guv'ner_." He held the card out. "Signed X."

_X._

Lucian took the card, scrutinising the words, sniffing as he did, the scent-card smelling of linen, grease, and the blood of Christian O'Riley. He read the note again. ' _Have a pair of eyes for a candle, guv'ner.'_

 _The 'candle' signifying Xristo, the anointed one. The 'pair of eyes' suggesting his enemies watched not only himself, but his prisoner. The word 'have' giving it a double-meaning_ … _to have a pair of eyes in exchange for Xristo and the notion that his enemies 'had' a pair of eyes for their quarry._

 _All of these details appearing tiny beside the most telling detail of all_ …

"Raze…" For the first time in two weeks, he found himself looking on a bloodied scent-card with a modicum of pleasure.  _Almost pity. The cold satisfaction in watching an enemy stumble. The perk of their long friendship, that knowledge that he could look to Raze to enjoy the humour._ "…tell me, in a hundred and forty-eight years of hunting Blackmarks, do you ever recall them actually leaving a  _note_  on a scent-card?"

He held it up.

 _And in such fanciful writing_ …

"Never." The lack of surprise in Raze's voice suggested the man was already on the same page as him. "Their connection to the Blackmarks may be real, but their execution speaks of youth. They kill too frequently. They opt for messages and symbolism when the core purpose of a Blackmark was not treason, but the killing of exiled vampires. All that they did, they did believing it was for the good of the Den."

 _That Raze had fought the concept of Exile's Quarter before its inception was a telling fact. But where Xristo had rebelled, Raze had stood by the lycan-master's decision. He had accepted the exiles._ He paused, waiting for the lycan-master to speak, but after four seconds of being stared at without comment, his report continued.

"The placement of the second body so close to the Prison Quarter gives us reason to believe they are partially, if not fully aware of the comings and goings of the lycan den." The frown on Raze's was steadily growing into a scowl. "As it is, I would suspect they are a new generation, one bred upon stories without full understanding of the principles behind the Blackmarks. Whatever their aim, I believe that what we are hunting may be within the walls of the den. In which case, we may be dealing with a first-class mutiny."

_Mutiny._

Lucian inhaled the word.  _He had no wish to hear the word, yet he had_  dealt with it fifty years ago and he would deal with it again if he had to, sparing little thought for the predicament in which Xristo would find himself. A dangerous circumstance to be in…a fallen leader whose new followers thought to place him on a throne of their making.  _It had not boded well for leaders of history and it would not bode well for Christian, the most frequent outcome being a very public execution watched by the very cowards who had tried to place the leader on the throne._

Without regret, he made the order. "Lock up Stafford, McIlroy, and Douglas on charges of treason," he said.  _He'd been wanting to do that for a long time._ "Separate cells. If they choose to resist, hunt them down."  _Raze could drag them by the scruff of their necks, if he had to_ …

The practical side took over Raze, like the mistress of a house planning a garden party…in prison _._  "I would suggest the south end. Block C. The air is drafty, the beds smell of mildew and the trains should be enough to drown out any noise between the walls." Raze knew the prison layout like the back of his hand. "Armed questioning?"

"Oh please…" Lucian smirked, flipping the scent-card back on the table. "…these men are investors, Raze. I think we can be a bit more polite than that…" He stood up. "Let them rot for the first forty-eight hours. Silent guards in front of each cell, and only those you trust to listen, memorise, and keep their mouths shut. Eyes front at all times."  _There was nothing like complete silence and the prospect of execution to make a prisoner nervous._

"And after the forty-eight hours?"

Lucian shrugged. "A desk, a pen, some paper. Let them write what they will…"  _Even if they were directly innocent of these crimes, one if not all of the three had a connection to this new generation of Blackmarks._ "…and if the council complains, inform them that this is a military matter…and it is in the best interests of this investigation to have three of our 'investors' locked up until the matter is dealt with."  _It never failed to amaze him how willing his Council could be when it came to looking over countless indiscretions, all amounting to treason, all for the sake of money. But then money kept the lycan race from falling out of hiding, didn't it?_

"Will they be formally sentenced?"

"Detained." He had no qualms about his actions.  _It was like pruning a fig tree._  "Keep the investigation ongoing, but make all seem as though we have caught our killers. If our enemies continue to reside outside the prison…then I am curious to see how they will react to this."  _The question being, would these new Blackmarks see these men as traitors to be disowned or comrades in need of saving?_

Raze nodded.  _Clearly he approved of the concept._ "The curfew in check, all as it seems, but the attention on those who have been detained." The mild scent of appreciation at the lycan-master's display of almost normal behaviour.  _Just like old times._  "It will be as you say."

"Excellent…" He stood. "…excellent…" And then, about to turn away, he stopped, looking the man in the eye. "…the report as well, Raze. Very thorough."  _More than just thorough, Raze had been solely holding the fort for the past week._ "You've done well over the past few months."

Raze barely looked down. "It was nothing."

"No, it was  _something,_ Raze."  _They both knew it was difficult for him to acknowledge support, so if he was going to make the effort, then someone bloody well ought to be accepting it._ "You have performed admirably, down to the last report, old friend, so just…" He breathed, putting out a hand. "…take the compliment before I recall there was ever… _anything_ …to do with you and drink-fighting in the London den."

The faintest gleam of teeth. The scent of pride. Raze grasped his hand. "Keep to the shadows. Survive the war."

"And then some," he replied, gripping the hand tight.

 _It was a beautiful moment. Normally one that would make him uncomfortable, but he and Raze had history. They shared everything_ … _from food to cities, to women._ He clapped the man on the back. He was about to stalk out of the room, but again his mouth got the better of him. "Seriously though, do you always get your wife to do your handiwork for you?"

Raze's grip tightened, but before anything could happen, Singe interjected, perhaps aware of where this was going. Still in his chair, he tapped the table, drawing their attention down. Whatever the politics, his only concern was matters of science.  _The scent._ "What of the eye then," he muttered. "You profess to know the scent, Lucian, but you do not regale us with your opinion."

 _Oh, would you look at that,_ he thought, grinning at Raze.  _Someone needs my opinion._ Casually, he unlocked his hand from Raze and cleared his throat before focusing on the eye.

"Quite ingenious really…" He indicated the bowl and then the area around the bowl. "The scent is all around us, Singe. The scent  _is_  us.  _We_ …" He paused mid-sentence, leaning over the bowl and then nodding. "…are the scent."

The scientist eyed him. "Elaborate if you will, Lucian."

"Right…" Picking up a pen, he indicated the curve of the eye. "…we know there is a gum of some sort coating the eye. We cannot smell it, but we see it, yes?"

They nodded.  _Slowly. Singe was still looking sceptical._

"So why is it there?"

"Preservation," Singe muttered. "Some form of embalming that requires further study beneath the microscope." He sounded bitter.  _The swab he had taken had been inconclusive, partially because of the burns inflicted directly after the eye was first found._

"Alright…" Lucian sat down again. "…we'll do an experiment…a  _theoretical_  experiment," he added, noting the scowl starting on Singe's face.  _The day he got to touch something in Singe's laboratory without the man flying off the handle_ …"Lycans…" He made a broad sweep of the room with his arm. "…we smell the food, the drink, our clothes, our blood…danger, excitement, emotions… _everything_  has a smell." He tapped the table with the pen. "…and a distinct one at that…" He gave a small pause for effect. "…so when does it become too much? At what point can the nose no longer handle the range of smell…at what point can it no longer decipher which scent is which?"

Raze spoke first. "Scent-masking," he said abruptly, crossing his arms.  _He smelled offended; whether by the concept or the earlier jibe had yet to be determined._

Lucian nodded. "Scent-masking."  _It was a dangerous weapon, one the vampires had never fully mastered. The trick lay in the concentration of smells, the gum battling the potential for evaporation. The smaller the space, the harder it was to pick out the scents. And the more scents there were, the more likely it was that the sense of smell could grow_ … _numb. Like going deaf for a short amount of time._ He leaned over the eye and pointed. "I am not saying there is  _one_  scent on this eyeball, Singe. I'm not saying there are twenty…I am saying there are probably over a hundred scents on this eyeball.."

"A hundred?" Now Raze looked sceptical. "They would need…"

"A distillery," Singe murmured.  _In the interim of discussing murder, they seemed to have reached a point of finishing each other's sentences._  "Perhaps even access to a perfume house." The scientist pursed the creases on his forehead an iota more, and the gleam in his eyes began to grow. "It would explain why two alphas are unable to smell the source in the same sitting. If we could isolate a few of the smells…dilute the gum. Evaporate it somehow and…decipher those which are not common to the den, Lucian…"

Lucian smiled broadly. "…then we have a scent-trail." Confident he'd set them in the right direction, he slapped Singe on the back and stood up again.  _His work here was done._   _It was a moment worth preening over. A break-through even._ "Call me when you make progress."

He was at the door when Singe called him.

_A bit too soon._

"Lucian?"

Still high off the momentum of having solved something, Lucian turned briskly at the door. "Singe."  _Moving forward was the ticket. Not back. He had done something useful today. As coincidence would have it, he might even get something useful done in front of his desk_ …

… _if people would just let him get there._

_Perhaps the agitation showed._

Singe appeared to study him for a moment, and then taking off his glasses, the man proceeded to clean them as he spoke. "I merely wish to remind you, old friend," he said. "We have an appointment today. Raze tells me your schedule is free this evening, but I wish to confirm, so we do not suffer another…misunderstanding…over the correct time." He put his glasses back on. "Does one o'clock suit you?"

_Right._

_One o'clock._

It felt like his skin was too tight all of a sudden.

 _Three months away from home, and he was having trouble remembering his own routine_.  _Or perhaps to be more accurate, he had hoped no one else would remember his routine._  They were both staring at him.  _No doubt gauging his reaction._ He squinted…and then managed a tight, not entirely comfortable, smile. "Course…one o'clock." He scratched his beard. "…Monday, I take it?"

"It will be Monday, yes," said Singe. "…after midnight."

"Well that was quick," he muttered. His neck was becoming remarkably…itchy…all of a sudden "Third Monday of the month," he said to himself…quietly. He was stalling by stating facts.  _Problematic to say the least._ "Just feels like yesterday, that's all."

Singe's voice was matter-of-fact. "Our last meeting was four months ago."

"Right," he said. "One o'clock?"

"If it suits you?" An eyebrow had been raised.

"Excellent." Lucian nodded.  _Again_. It felt like the smile was painted on his face. "Excellent. I will be here at…" He inhaled, flipping open his pocket-watch.  _It felt good to have the ticking in his hand again._ "…one o'clock." He nodded one last time, and then stalked off, shutting the door behind him before either Raze or Singe could answer. His back to the door, the hallway empty and the air feeling…just a little thin.  _Third Monday of every month. Easy to remember. Good times. Perfectly normal. One o'clock. Perfectly fine. He had four hours to kill until then._

_No problem._

_o_ … _o_ … _o_

_The Laboratory of Singe. 1:21 pm. Four hours and twenty minutes later._

"Inhale."

Lucian took a deep breath. The stethoscope was freezing; noticeable even when his body was cold, like a dedicated source of ice on his chest. He could hear his heart beating. The sound barely audible, the majority of the beats cut off by the ears of Singe. Beyond that, the clatter of a heater through the wall. A dog whining several floors above them.  _Difficult to find animals that would take food from a lycan hand…_

"…and exhale."

He breathed out.  _Complete waste of time. His heart was fine. His lungs were fine. Everything physical_ … _as they had ascertained over the past twenty minutes_ … _was fine._

"Good." Singe was holding a pocket-watch, the cogs ticking away behind the scratched surface. Flipping the watch shut, he looked over his glasses. Almost sagely. "Very good…now…" There was a clipped manner to his speech. "…how many beats per minute?"

There was a pause.

Lucian scratched his arm.  _They both knew what he was talking about._ Far above, the dog had stopped whining.  _A bit abruptly_ … _like someone had dragged it out of its hiding place._ His eyes targeted the ceiling. "I don't know, ninety," he said. "I thought you were the physician this evening."

"Indeed…" The lycan nodded his head. "…but we see now whether I am a good judge of character. I believe you are keeping track of time, Lucian, yes…but I also believe you keep track in memory as well." He indicated the watch. "What if we make this harder? Forgetting the exhale, how many heartbeats would there be in the minutes since I told you to inhale?"

"Look, it's not  _that_  accurate, Singe." It had taken…a decade to get him into an examination room…and then another two for him to admit that perhaps, Singe knew what he was talking about. _Nonetheless, he sincerely wished that Raze had not mentioned the counting four years ago._

Singe tapped the pen against his chin. "I believe the accuracy rises when you are stressed."

"Well, as you can see…" Lucian gestured at himself. "…I am not stressed."  _Just fine. Splendid,_ he thought. When he coughed, it sounded like hollow, if not entirely false, laughter.  _Perhaps his lungs pointing out that he had tried to kill himself two days ago, and they both knew it. Nonetheless_ … _he was not stressed._

"You have nightmares?"

He leaned back on the table, waving a hand idly. "Are we talking about nightmares or keeping time, Singe…pick one." Hard to make light of the situation when it felt, rather suddenly, as though, every candle in the room was sitting under his seat.

"Both." Singe made a note. He'd taken a seat on the wooden stool, the small candle by his hand making the pages seem to glow. "Do you find yourself keeping time in the dreams?"

"Not really…" He picked up some tweezers, starting to fiddle with the ends.  _There were bigger concerns while he was dreaming_ … _such as why he was pounding the flesh of his dead wife into an anvil_ … _with a hammer._

"Is there any kind of constancy…a beat…anything that would suggest the keeping of time, even if you are not aware of it?"

He shrugged.  _The anvil. The hammer. Maybe her screams._ He started picking at the dirt beneath his fingernails. "Sometimes."

"Can you go into detail?"

The tweezers were occupying his attention.  _He was supposed to talk. Every month, they attempted to_ … _talk about any_ … _issues. He was supposed to_ … _get this off his chest. Thirty seconds. Forty seconds. A minute and forty seconds. He had to say_ … _something._   _They had been doing this for what seemed like an eternity_ … _and as yet, he had only come to terms with how pointless the exercise really was._

Singe took a moment to clean his glasses. "Lucian…" His voice was clinical. "…the more I know, the more I can assist…the more I can find the root of your problem."

"Right…" Lucian frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. "…right, the thing is…" He was nodding too much.  _Why did this feel so awkward? Usually he was the one staring people into the wall._  "…the thing is, I'm still a bit… _confused_ …" _Yes, confused was the right word_. "…how talking about it…is really going to  _do_  anything after…I don't know…five hundred years…" He twitched suddenly, poking a finger in his ear.  _It felt like the air was starting to buzz._ He grimaced at the ceiling and then looked at Singe. "Do you hear that?'

Singe shrugged. "I hear nothing." As was to be expected, he looked indifferent to his patient's discomfort.  _A quality of having started his life as a chemist prior to venturing deeper into the world of biology and then medicine._ "Perhaps in a month, I will hear a proper answer to my question."

"Well you've asked six… " he said tersely. "…and I've answered _six_ , Singe so it's not as though we're talking about the end of the world here." It felt like he needed to slap his ear off in order to hear properly.

 _Another note._  "Are you counting right now?"

"No."

"How many minutes have passed?"

Lucian blinked, staring at the man…and then he frowned. "Sorry, is there something  _wrong_  with your pocket-watch, Singe…because we can have that fixed, you know?" He was tetchy, he was aware of it, and there was no helping it.  _It was getting louder._   _Like a_ … _high-pitched mewling._ He scratched his ear. "Are you sure you don't hear that?"

"I hear nothing," he said again. "…but if my theory is correct, Lucian, you will be able to conjure this number, regardless of whether it holds your full attention or not." He leaned forward. "How many minutes?"

He ignored the question _,_  raising his hand to his ear _. It felt like his ears were ringing_ … _every_ … _half second_. "How can you not hear that? It sounds like the whole den is buzzing."

"Yes, I am aware that you hear this, Lucian, but I am also interested in how many beats and minutes have passed since I asked you to inhale." Despite his small appearance, the man had the sympathy of a boulder. "A whole number will suffice."

 _"_ Alright,  _seven_ times ninety," he grunted, throwing out a number. His left ear was angled towards the ceiling. _Who the devil was making that noise? It made him want to crawl out of his skin._

"Perhaps seven, perhaps six," the man intoned. "Perhaps we gauge my experiments like this and see how many minutes it takes to kill someone with inaccuracy."

"Yes,  _there's_  an idea."

 _There was no answer this time._  Single looked both unimpressed and invariable, prepared to sit there for eternity, confident that the world would end, prior to his question being answered, just as he had predicted. The problem being that Singe was  _fine_  with that as long as his theory was proven correct.

_Fine._

"Right." He scowled. "Alright. How many beats since we started…" He stared at the wall for a moment.  _Concentrate._  "…using an average of a hundred and fifteen beats per minute…"  _Concentrate in spite of the ringing._  "…not to mention the eight hours, twenty-one minutes…"  _The sound was piercing his ear-drum. "_ …and thirty four…five…six…seven seconds since I first walked into this room, I'd say you get about…"

_Tick. Tick._

_Clang._

_"…_ fifty-seven thousand, six-hundred and seventy-five bloody beats if you're feeling generous, Singe." He could feel his eyes starting to go silver.  _Worse than nails on a chalkboard_ … _like a dying cat._ "Are we finished here?"

"Not quite."

"Well, I'm finished." He yanked his shirt off the table, shrugging it back on. Before the second was over, he was off the table and heading for the door. That sound could be dangerous, yet he turned around at the last minute _. It made no sense, why was he the only one hearing this?_  "You  _still_  cannot hear that?"

Singe shrugged. "Unfortunately my hearing is not as good as your own, Lucian, but…" He turned in his chair, squinting through his glasses into a cabinet. "…I would imagine it is a dog-whistle, stuffed with cotton and played at half second intervals by Raze, four floors up…" Lucian stilled and then slowly cocked his head to look at Singe. The scientist failing to notice the look, having moved on already, putting on gloves and pulling a syringe from the cabinet. "Roll up your sleeve."

 _Raze_ …

… _and a dog-whistle_ …

His hand was starting to hurt where he was gripping the handle of the door.  _One of the many moments when he was actually tempted to break something large._ He inhaled, removed his hand and stalked back to the table, sitting back down again.  _Still counting the seconds of listening to a noise that was not there, the majority taken up by Singe jabbing him with a needle, drawing enough blood to service an army_. It took a moment for him to find his quiet voice. "You realise I could have you thrown in a cell for this?"

"Yes, but I imagine it would not be so advantageous to your health, old friend." Looking increasingly cynical, Singe scrawled a note on the bottom of the page. "…besides, I imagine the sound will stop after another minute or so." He added a check mark to the chart. "Hearing is exceptional when you focus. Reflexes…" He flipped a test-tube without looking, checking the bottom of his chart as soon as it became clear the glass had not shattered. "…normal."

The buzz died away.

Lucian squinted…and then put the test-tube down, touching his ear tentatively for a moment, opening his mouth to try and even out the pressure. The sound was gone, but his ear-drum was still vibrating…he might have to yawn a few times to get the comfort level back.  _Blood forbid, the vampires start using dog-whistles in their arsenal. It certainly wouldn't kill anyone, but blood, fuck, damn, it was annoying_ …

"Do you need a moment?"

He tried pulling his earlobe. "To kill something, yes…but if you're talking about the examination, then no."

"Mmm…" Singe wrote something in the back-pages of his book, barely acknowledging the threat other than to categorise it.  _He had long since established that his brain was far too priceless to put him in any immediate danger, regardless of his actions._  "…very well. Perhaps now we speak of some of the…eccentricities…that have come to my attention in the past few weeks."

"Right…" He was thwacking his ear with a finger. "…you're right, Singe, for a moment there,  _just_  after you established that a dog-whistle can turn my head into a timepiece, I was starting to feel normal. Please…" He waved a hand over one of the surgical saws hanging on the wall. "…continue."

"No, no…" It was the first sign of fervour he'd seen from Singe all night.  _Clearly this was one of the points he enjoyed studying._ "…not a timepiece, Lucian. You keep time both in the present and in memory, but…" He was scrawling notes in the book, crossing things out at the same time.  _It was like sitting in on a lecture. "_ …whether your memories are separated into allotted sections of time, a minute, two minutes…" He gave an almost coughing laugh of eagerness. "…the means by which you keep time,  _this_  we must still examine over the next few months, however…" He hemmed and hawed, using the pen to push his glasses up, seeming unwilling but forced to brush aside the concept for the sake of time. "…we can let that one lie for the time being."

"Oh can we?"  _It was not often that he found himself rendered speechless until the lycan had finished his ramble._  He was starting to regret making Singe his personal physician. "As long as it's just lying there, you may as well dissect everything that Raze happens to tell you about my psyche. I mean, the knife is right there, Singe…" He pointed above his head. "…right  _there_."

Singe took no notice. The pen was on the page again. The lycan nodded to himself, making another of what must comprise an entire book of notes on his patients. "Do you ever see things while you are awake?"

"Do I see things…" He rolled his eyes. _Laudanum addicts_ … _so misunderstood._ "…that was one study, Singe.  _One,_  and it was a fucking joke…" He was using his hands to explain. "…the side effects are minimal, the results are adequate and…" He scoffed. "… _humans_  use more laudanum than I do."

"Mmm." Another note.

He was feeling remarkably blunt. "Can I see that book, please?"

Singe coughed in answer.  _Apparently he wasn't even going to dignify that question with an answer._   _It almost looked as though he had scrawled the word 'denial' along the bottom._ "According to Raze, you ran out of laudanum on the night of your journey out of Budapest."

"So?"

"According to Raze, on the same night, you saw something peculiar, something that Raze did not see."  _Bluntness in exchange for bluntness._  "Are you aware of this?"

Lucian crossed his arms. "I think I'm aware of a  _lot_  of things, Singe…and since you weren't actually in Budapest, for all you know, I saw something that Raze managed to overlook…"

The scientist exhaled, his head making a motion as though he were pushing the concept from side to side. "It is…perhaps  _more_  than Raze…" He paused. "…Goar is within your trusted circle, yet he too maintains that the house was empty. That  _that_  particular house has always been empty."

_Right._

_The house was not empty._

He leaned forward. "Look, I think I'm  _aware_  when what I see is actually in  _front_  of my eyes, Singe."

Singe was looking down over his glasses. "Are you?"

" _Yes_ ," he replied, just as bluntly, fully aware that it  _was_  the word "denial" he had seen scrawled in that book. The thought making him pause. He found himself staring at just about everything but Singe _. Had he been hallucinating? The potential was there. He'd always been in control of the laudanum. He abused it_ … _but the relationship never went the other way around._

 _At least as far as he was aware_ …

He looked up briefly and then returned his gaze to his nails. He was biting them.  _He had to think about this. Was he living in denial? Singe never lied to him when it came to matters of science or medicine, the man almost perpetually proud of his findings._   _By the scent, it was clear he had said his piece and was now studying his patient, waiting for a blood-slide to admit that it was red._

"Alright…" He paused, looking at the door. _They had talked about this. It was trust-building. He had to trust Singe_ … _and the more he trusted others, the less likely he would turn into a tyrant. Singe was not his enemy._  "…this does not leave the room, but say I  _was_  going through a small withdrawal that night…"

Singe looked down at his chart. "And this was  _after_  you upped your dosage in Budapest?"

He started to nod…and then stopped.  _No. The facts were misleading. Singe was giving him the wrong facts_ … _forcing him to_ … _to say the right ones. It was like_ … _bloody therapy._ "No, it was…before that…in Berlin."

"I was led to believe you upped your dosage in Prague."

"Yes."

"So you upped your dosage twice in the past three months?"

Lucian frowned. He was starting to feel cornered. He fished for an answer.  _Unfortunately, the right one came to his tongue. There would be consequences. He could smell it. A combination of Singe's detached nature paired with his respect for the scientist's brain._  "…yes."

"And then you saw something in the house?"

"Not something…" He was staring at the floor. "Someone…" He breathed out, his thoughts trailing off. He needed to remember.  _There had been a house._ "I think it was a woman…" He frowned, letting his head fall back for a minute. _Closing his eyes, he could almost hear it again._   _A woman singing to her child_ … _a song too old to be sung by a woman in the 19th century. And yet it had been so clear_ … _not so much the woman, but_ … _the child._

_Someone's daughter._

Singe waited for him to continue.

But the silence was too long…he had to deal with this, and get out of here. "Could it be the amount…"  _He needed to look at facts. A fix. Something to_ … _fix this._ "…because I ran out of laudanum  _just_ before I saw that woman…in which case, maybe I should  _not_  be lowering the dose if I'm going to start seeing things every five seconds."

_Oh, that would be nice._

_Allegra would be off his case for five seconds._

"Perhaps…" Singe appeared to be thinking, his fist beneath his chin, the crease in his brow lending weight to the theory. "…the key would be to withdraw completely from the substance over a fixed period of time. Perhaps…two years." He seemed to be calculating. "We lower the dose on a tri-monthly basis…monitor your symptoms…regulate and remove the need for self-medication…"

"Come again?" His eyes were wider. He could feel his eyes  _literally_  widening.

_He was hoping he had misheard that last one._

The lycan nodded, paying little attention to his patient. "Self-medication…it is no longer a viable option, Lucian. According to Raze and Allegra, you have suggested that you are in control of your measurements, however you appear to have difficulty knowing the difference between a teaspoon and several tablespoons."

"Yes, but I've…" He squinted. "…I've lowered the dosage already."

"Have you?"

 _Had he_ … _maybe_ … _give or take a midnight fix_ … _He wanted to pull out his hair_ … He frowned. … _which needed cutting._   _The point being, it was a frustrating sentence to take in._  He exhaled. "Fine," he murmured. "We do it your way." He was feeling a bit empty.  _Like his brain had just shut off_ … _except he was still counting._

Singe nodded before continuing. "In addition, I would suggest we remove the laudanum from your quarters immediately and place it in a secure environment…"

"Oh let  _me_  guess…" Lucian gestured around him sarcastically, being sure to include the surgical saw. "…how about here? "

Singe wore only the slightest of smiles. "You can be sure the measurements will be accurate," he said.

 _Right._ Lucian exhaled, allowing his back to slouch against the chair-back.  _The ceiling was providing little consolation. Raze was no doubt upstairs congratulating himself on shoving his superior into the path of recovery. The true path of recovery_ … _not the one where he wandered off and on it again, depending on how he was feeling_ … _which was not good._ After a moment, he nodded, put his hand in his pocket and drew out one of his emergency stashes. "You'll get the rest tomorrow." He put the bottle on the table and turned away.

"Why not today?"  _Singe was not failing to state the obvious._

He turned around. "Because  _today_ is turning into complete shite, Singe." He was trying not to speak around his teeth. "Alright?"

Singe nodded, smelling remarkably indifferent. "Alright."

_It would be alright._


	42. A Stubborn Act of Will

**Chapter XLII: A Stubborn Act of Will**

_A week later. 3:45 am._

_It was not alright_. His skin felt like it was on fire, his mouth felt dry, and for the most part, he was agitated. To make matters worse, Singe has prescribed him a tincture of St. John's Wort.  _It was a herbal extract meant to combat depression in humans. As though the name were not bad enough, it also had a nasty habit of causing skin irritation in animals_ …

 _Best of both worlds._  Neither of which could run itself…so rather than dealing with the symptoms in his quarters, he was seated in the study, keeping his peace as a Line commissioner reported on the state of affairs between Monaco and surrounding France. The words starting to drone, the lycan potentially aware that he was losing his audience, having stuttered twice; Allegra circling the room, the sensual line of her back perhaps having much to do with the stutter. He himself was only paying a quarter of his attention to the man.  _A quarter on how much he wanted to flog his own skin off, and the rest still on that blood-slide._

_Reinette._

_Their wager. The catacombs._ He had spent the morning in talks with Raze and Allegra, discussing the consequences _. If she did pass deep enough into the catacombs, if she did find her escape, could he do what was necessary? Could he hunt her down as he ought to do?_ His answer lying in the affirmative, but his conscience at times swayed, not by politics or logic, but the distorted principles of a former slave. Principles he had tried to set aside only to find they were ingrained in his being. _Simply put, he wanted her to choose to be on his side. Whether out of necessity, temptation or under duress_ … _the reason for her choice did not matter to him_ ;  _only that_   _she had to choose._

 _First impressions were telling and he had not forgotten hers. Like poison, the scent of malice and spite directed at Tanis. The first sign that, however docile she might seem, Reinette had a rather_ … _intense_ … _capacity for hatred. Something one had to keep in mind when caging an immortal. Not just the initial imprisonment, but the years that must follow_ …

 _Years that presented him with two paths_. The first, the way of the catacomb, opening the door now and forcing her to  _see_  how much better life was in the golden tower he—or rather Mrs. Fulligan—had built her…or lock the door permanently and spend the next hundred years watching her grow in bitterness, waiting not only to escape, but also to stab him in the face as she passed.  _No doubt with something blunt_ … _and poisonous_ ;  _aconitum, if he was any judge._ Stabbing aside, however Raze might vie for the second option, for himself, he chose the first. Her decisions occurring quickly, hinging on circumstance, fate, and whatever trust he could build before the year's end. Hours, days…weeks spent crawling in the dirt of an abandoned maze of tunnels…the sight-holes still intact from the days when they used to trap their enemies and shoot them down from above…

… _eventually she would have to break._

 _It was only logical. She would be cold, frightened, alone_ … _her people extinct, her future dark if she did not accept his aid. Her existence causing him to wonder at times how many, if any, had survived Viktor's onslaught. His memories of the time brief, but potent_ … _images of bodies lying in a pit, awaiting the sun. An act he had never quite resolved out of his list of sins_ …  _so that it did not seem to matter that he had been a slave at the time, that he had been the victim of a cruel master. Only that for a time, he had believed in the will of Viktor. He had hunted bloodseers. He had aimed his weapons, he had stalked their tracks_ … _and he had killed them._

_Brutally._

It was on the cusp of this last thought that he began to notice how quiet the room was becoming. His inner thoughts dying away and as a result, his awareness of how uncomfortable he was rising in its strength. The Line Commissioner had long since finished, his eyes on the ground, his scent one of nerves and anxiety. Allegra was smelling of the opposite. Looking the opposite.  _Calm. Bemused. Her lips pale today, stained only by the blood of her glass._ She was watching him watch her.  _Always aware when his mind was not on the subject at hand._ She raised an eyebrow.

 _Yes,_ he thought, eyeing her back with the same expression.  _Can I help you?_

His look prompting her to laugh, a faint tinkle of laughter from her throat, his capacity to pretend he was not dying on the inside  _always_  a source of amusement _._ She looked at the door, and then again raised an eye casually at him, the message clear _. If he was not going to be useful here, he may as well be useful out there._ Her lips resuming their place near the glass as she began to stride about the room again.  _The curve of her back finally catching his attention._

 _Her knowledge of his mannerisms still intact after all these years._  The exchange almost giving him a touch of nostalgia.  _Memories of a time when he and Allegra had been good together_ … _when they spent their days in bed and their nights in council. And despite having subsequently tired of each other's company, he was for the first time in a long time, willing to admit that_ …both love and hatred could sit beside one another.  _And it could not be denied she was already proving helpful in the matter of Reinette. Not to say he was entirely in favour of her conversation tactics—from his perspective, specifically suggesting to Reinette that he liked her company was akin to telling her he enjoyed having her decapitated head on his wall—but if it helped him win that wager, Allegra could say what she liked._

 _As to the subject at hand_ …

He sat forward on the settee, moving his glass to examine one of the marginally tattered maps on the table.  _French territory, the Line drawn in red along the map and therefore likely to be burned after this meeting_ … _._  "Dupont, correct me if I am wrong…" He squinted at the map, having little patience for skirting the point. "…but Monaco is officially recognised as a sovereignty, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And after thirty years of sovereignty, do the lycans of Monaco consider themselves French?"

"No, sir."

"And the purpose of the Line?"

The lycan dared to smile for the first time. "Communication between the Horde, sir. Scent markers are used solely for the designation of safety within the boundaries of lycan territory. As of late, France has been unwilling to recognise Monaco's connection to Nice, despite continuing to use it as a scent-mark."

"Well, that's just rude, isn't it?"

The lycan exhaled, his scent giving way to a relieved albeit short laugh. "Yes, sir."

"Right you are," he replied, accommodating the man with good humour, starting to thumb his beard.  _As of late, France was getting out of line. Literally._ Inhaling deeply, he looked up. "Allegra, shall we sign this thing?" He held a hand out for the report. "I can only assume it needs a second signature."  _His back was getting itchier._ Although bearing the man no ill will, he felt his smile evaporating, the briskness taking over.

Allegra sighed, continuing to wander around the room. Her blood-red drink in stark contrast to the white that she was wearing.  _Lace. A human would have been freezing in the garment._  "I've already signed, Lyosha. Poor Monsieur Dupont and myself have been waiting for  _you_."

"Indeed…" He sniffed, taking the report, placing it on the map and signing.  _His official signature not so much a name as a code._ "…let me not keep you waiting then." Dotting the last line, he handed the report back with a warning. "You may meet with opposition, Dupont, but the signatures should be sufficient to hold you in position until the Gathering. In the interim, I would suggest you bring this to the Horde ministers' attention and request an official listing in the agendum while you are here. You are free to go on your way."

"Yes sir, thank you, sir." The lycan had the look of Christmas come early. "Thank you."

He nodded. "On your way."

The lycan saluted twice, backing away from both of them and then footing it out the door as soon as he was clear of the wood.  _Likely they would hear his heels click in the next half minute._  Prior experience leading them both to wait an obligatory ten seconds before Allegra casually reopened the door, taking a peek outside to make sure there were no immediate listeners.  _Both sentries down the hall. The candles burning and the shadows empty._

_Everything in order._

She closed the door again softly and turned around, her back still perfectly sloped but her walk no longer as graceful as it was.  _They had been at this for seven hours. Every messenger, every request, every political report_   _under the sun had found its way to the study_ … _the signing potential of two leaders under the same roof causing many to travel to London for the sake of an audience. It helped that Allegra was a touch more approachable than he was._ Taking a seat on the edge of a rather plush chair, she picked up the schedule. "I think we still have two more…" Her scent suggesting she meant three more, but preferred to break the news to him later. "…how are you holding up?"

He inhaled, gingerly sitting back on the settee. "Not so bad…" His sentence felt very gritted.  _His shirt chosen for comfort rather than style_ … _the fabric still making him cringe. He was used to ignoring pain. Wounds, scrapes_ … _anything immediate_ … _but this was just_ … _irritating. Constant. Everywhere._

_Even his face was itchy._

"Poor dear." She looked sympathetic. "Singe says the symptoms will pass."

"Did he now …" He was starting to rub the sides of his temple, trying to regain a level of comfort. "…I suppose if you called Raze, we could just…" He gestured lazily at his arm. "… _remove_  it…"

"Yes, but then you'd be missing all your skin, Lyosha, and you would not be nearly so strapping, would you?" She leaned forward, touching his shoulder. Rising from her seat to walk around the settee, her fingers moving over both shoulders, slowly but surely starting to knead the muscle. "Have you tried relaxing?" She worked out a knot in his shoulder. "Perhaps you could focus on something else for a couple of days." Her voice was very inviting. "Something useful."

 _Something useful._ This was the second time this evening that she was giving him that impression—that of a cat winding its tail around his leg—and Allegra never sought his attention without reason. The knowledge making him feel…circumspect. "Define useful."

"To help when help is required…" Allegra inclined her neck to look down at him from above. "Needless to say, I am very good at what I do, but there comes a time when honesty becomes paramount to success, Lyosha…and to speak with honesty…" Keeping her fingers poised, she came around, taking a seat beside him, gracefully aligning herself with the cushions and continuing the massage from the right side _._  "…your little bloodseer is becoming a little less inclined to sharing her personal details." The thought seeming to cause a slight crease in her brow. "Of the domestic side of life, yes, she speaks, she shares…even occasionally entertaining an opinion on certain inhabitants of this household, namely  _you_ …but…" She sighed. "…anything prior to her Awakening, she shuts up like a book."

He was having severe trouble caring at the moment.  _Like being scratched behind the ears._ "Well,  _open_  the book," he muttered.  _His eyes were starting to close. She knew the exact_ … _spot._

"I have tried, Lyosha." She sounded both amused and frustrated, amused over how her fingers could still affect him in this way and frustrated over their integration of Reinette. "The woman either feigns an inability to remember or she pretends to have misheard the question. Her hair may be silver, but her hearing is not  _that_  old."

"Mm…" He was getting more relaxed. A shiver of warmth seeping into his shoulders. Despite this, he had to prepare himself to move away from the…fingers…on his ear. His jaw.  _Any minute, Raze could walk in_ … _and then he'd be in trouble, not Allegra. Him. He just had to_ … _get up. Right…now_. Her fingers moved down, just below his collar-bone.  _Blood. Right. Think._ Scratching felt so good. _Reinette. Her memories. On his last visit, flipping through the book he gave her…the alphabet Roman, the language unknown, but the hand well-formed, like one taught to write in a time when paper had been precious._  "Did you ask her about that journal _…_ on her desk _…_ "

"Of course," she murmured in his ear.  _She seemed closer, her body having moved several inches in his direction._  "…but she will not share. So unless you're planning to employ someone who can read all that she writes each morning, Lyosha, in five months' time, we are going to find ourselves standing in front of a council with a book and little else."

"Define we."

She laughed as though he were being silly. Frightfully. "You and  _I_ , Lyosha…" She took a sip from her glass, adjusting the skirt of her dress.  _Somehow between spending seven hours in a room with her and her scratching his ear, he had ended up with his head on her lap. Not good. Really not good_ …"…I may have banished you from terrorising the ladies of the East Wing, but there is no reason I cannot call the wolf back from his lair."

 _Focus on the cloth_.  _To be on the cloth was not to be on the long, soft, supple legs of Raze's wife, who had no understanding of personal space. Or rather, she had a full understanding of it and used it to her benefit._  "And supposing the wolf does not care to come out of his lair…"  _He knew what she wanted_ … _and he was not doing it. Every time he entered that room, he ended up_ … _talking. Too much. And Reinette was not that closed. Granted she had been noticeably quiet the last time he had seen her, but he had assumed it was because of that tiff_ … _with Allegra_ … _who apparently was willing to put aside her differences for the greater good._

"Oh come now…" She was stroking the side of his head. "…just a small visit, Lyosha. You could be in and out within the hour." _Did she have to choose that particular wording?_

"No."

"Just something to get her talking again." She was practically cooing. "And you know how much you vex women…she's bound to yell something in the heat of the moment." She rubbed his arm lightly. "For all we know, it might even be pleasurable."

"Does it look like I am getting any 'pleasure' right now," he grunted into the pillow.  _It was like dealing with a growth on his arm. Another thing he wished Raze could remove._  Without looking, he pulled the back of his shirt collar to the side, pointing with his index finger. "Go on, tell me…"

She pealed with laughter, staring at the raw skin on the back of his neck.  _Scratched. Red. Not healing._  "I suppose not…but you  _could_  always return her missing drawer. It's been almost a week now…and where is she supposed to put her things? How can a woman survive with only two drawers, a wardrobe, and a bedside table, Lyosha…it is  _incomprehensible_."

_His position on her legs was incomprehensible._

_Dangerous._

He exhaled, trying to think of something else.  _Where had he left the missing drawer? He'd left it somewhere. About to fix it_ … _and then he put it down_ … _and wandered off. He hadn't the faintest idea. Was this what getting old meant? He could remember the exact number of days since he had done anything with anyone against a wall_ … _and everything else was like chaff in the wind?_

"Hallway." She stroked his ear one final time, before carefully moving his head off her lap and standing with a line that begged for attention. _She always knew the exact moment before dabbling became adultery._ "Second staircase near the library," she added. "And don't forget to fix it. "

 _He was not fixing it._  He was at peace with himself.  _No guilt. No need to appease Allegra. No need to appease Reinette._ "Right," he muttered, turning over so he could sprawl the length of the settee. "…I'll get on that after shoeing her horse and shining her corset."

"I am being serious, Lyosha." She reached down, touching him on the cheek. "It will show her that you care for her well-being. You built that cabinet. And one of the chairs in your library…I think you could sand a piece of wood after a millennium…"

"Still not fixing it."

 _Allegra hated the word 'no'. Her eyes were starting to reflect. Clearly she had planned this down to the moment when he forgot himself by virtue of her legs, which fortunately was not going to happen._ She stopped, several feet away from him, and then turned, her hands demurely on her hips. Ten brief seconds passing before she jumped on it. "You would do it for a wager then?"

 _Would he do it for a wager_ …

 _…the answer taking a fraction of a second._   _The only means of getting him to change his mind, if only for the brief interest that gambling held for him_. Still watching her from the settee, he thumbed the side of his lip, removed a hand from beneath his head and inclined it towards her.  _Speak._

"Terms." Her hands reached seductively across the curve of her hips. "If you fix that drawer, Lyosha…she will talk about her past. If she does, I want you to get something for Raze this year…" She raised a finger. "Something  _nice_. Expensive. Hand-made in your forge by your hand. None of that tripe that you gave him last solstice."

He rolled his eyes. _It was not tripe._

 _And given her past occupation, she ought to be well-versed in how many married men actually enjoyed that tripe when their wives were not present. Perhaps if Raze had not left the tripe lying around, he might have been able to keep the tripe instead of being forced to hand it over to his nanny. But he digressed_ … "Fine." He waved a hand. "No more tripe for Raze. What's the alternative?"

"If Reinette does not open up to you in some manner…" She idled over to his desk and picked up a thick piece of paper that had been lying there since noon. "…I might be willing to renegotiate some of the lower numbers on that hunting commission you've been wanting me to sign. In your favour."

"The key word being 'might' or ' _will_ '?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Will."

"Done."

He'd have to make time for it in the morning.  _It never failed to amaze him. She had been married to Raze for almost a year now and he was still doing the odd job around the house for her._

o…o…o

_December 4, 1899. The next day._

Reinette was pouring blood from her teapot.  _Not from a dying hare. Not from a leather script or a metal samovar_ … _but a porcelain white teapot._ After a moment, she put it down, still somewhat estranged by the rituals of this household. Everything that entered her room was clean. The silver tray polished, the teacloth spotless…someone had even shaved some red marrow onto a plate, should she wish to add some depth to her meal. She had spent much of the evening in the armchair, occasionally looking up as Rena took care of the winter airing.  _Rolling up the carpet and bed-linens, dusting the furniture, sweeping the floors and finally, disappearing with the textiles._

Alone for once, she was looking forward to a quiet evening, her lessons having been cancelled inexplicably.  _Singe arriving briefly to take a blood-sample, the needle leaving a nasty bruise. Usually he was careful, but he seemed to be in haste these days._ She yawned, turning the page.  _Two pages through the English reader and she had used the dictionary for every second word. Not exactly a shining example of linguistics,_ she decided.  _But neither was it an embarrassment._  She was being forced to learn more languages in two months than most vampires could consume in a year…and as the past week had told her, she would need…English…to get back to the mainland.  _So learn it she would._

_Of course, her evening was not to be quiet._

_Not in this household._  Behind her, she heard the key turning in the lock, the sense that she had less than a second to move.  _There had been no footsteps. No sign that the person outside that door was carrying a carpet._ Swiftly, her hand reached up, pulling the veil over her face as the handle turned. Her back was facing the door, yet she knew it was him.  _She had not seen him in a week_ … _and why should she care? She would not greet him_ … _and she would not acknowledge his presence. Unstable and volatile_.  _A drug addict, a captor_ …The door shut behind him. The sound of his footsteps taking him to her desk, following by something heavy placed on the floor.  _Heavy. A box perhaps_ … _a wooden box?_

Despite holding the silence, she found herself waiting for the expected greeting.  _He always started their conversations. The sarcasm, the jibes_ … Temptation calling for her to turn in her chair.  _Look. Observe what he was doing, observe the source of the sounds._

She forced herself to turn the next page. The words on the page starting to run together, the train of her thoughts making her…uncomfortable.

 _And what did she care if he was silent? Lycans were_ … _not_ … _of her kind, the dreams of her mentor at times providing a rock on which to stand, only to find herself falling as soon she woke. The realisation of how unstable her feelings were in this household. At times, feeling like a child, stumbling about this world, trying to understand all that is unknown._

More sounds.

 _Surely he would speak first. Was he waiting for her to speak? Or did he not care? Was this his way of punishing her, entering the room and going about his business without paying her any mind? What was he doing?_  The book providing little more than a cover as she tried to see from the corner of her eye.  _Quiet movement now. The temptation growing in leaps and bounds. She had to know._

Nonchalantly, she closed the book and placed it on the side of the tea-tray, before stretching her arm and by happenstance, finding herself glancing over the back of her chair.  _She was not engaging in conversation with him. Merely stretching._

 _As usual, his choice of evening activities taking her aback._ He was crouching in front of her desk, one eye closed and an arm outstretched, lining up her missing drawer with the enormous gap he had left behind in the furniture.

_He was fixing it._

_Here._

She frowned, unsure what to do with this scenario.  _His back was to her_ … _his garb largely informal. A simple white shirt paired with a waistcoat and breeches. The boots were recently shined, but scuffed around the edges. His hair getting in his way even as he leaned forward._ She sat back down again, this time leaning over the arm of the chair, watching him until…

"You're fixing my drawer." It took her a moment to realise that she herself had been the one to speak, her mouth working faster than her mind.  _What was wrong with her?_

He seemed to have the same question in mind for he turned around to stare, as though he truly needed to dig deep before answering that question, and then nodded.  _The rosewood requiring a fine touch, one that he appeared to possess despite his earlier mistreatment of the wood._

_He was leaning over again._

The view from her chair proving far more interesting than her book, the speed with which he worked, the meticulous nature as he measured, squinting before making any marks on the side of the wood. All of the work done quickly, with efficiency, so that before long, he had turned around, taken a seat on the floor, and pulled the drawer up close between his legs.  _He still had not said anything._ Retrieving a small piece of glass-paper from the box, he touched the surface with his thumb and then started to sand…very lightly…across one edge of the drawer.  _He always spoke first._ _Why was he not speaking?_

She could not help it… "I thought you were a blacksmith," she said.

He made an affirmative sound.  _This time with less of the sarcasm._ He held up the drawer to the light for a moment, and then resumed.  _Apparently, he was not_ … _talkative_ … _today._

"Do you often work with wood?" She was blurting things.  _Wood. She had just asked him about wood. It was not_ … _right_ … _why was she trying to start a conversation with him? It felt like she was falling from that rock again._

He shrugged, as though that explained everything and then pulled the wooden box closer, sorting through what appeared to be a collection of tiny metal sticks, the majority of them bent out of shape. After a moment, he found the pair he wanted, balanced them on each end of the drawer and lined up his sight with the edge.  _The silence would continue. She'd never seen anything like it_ … _out of him._

_Perhaps a jibe._

"I suppose wood breaks before it bends," she murmured thoughtfully. "…does that not suit you more than metal?"

 _It was like water glancing off stone._ He squinted at the drawer. "Only if I can  _build_  something with the pieces, Reinette." The balancing continued. "Only if I can build." He had answered her in Latin.  _Like an old soothsayer meditating on the foothills of Corinth._ The calm of his manner causing her to scowl beneath her veil.  _He was not biting._   _The thought throwing her brain into chaos for a moment. Why did she want him to bite?_ The silence lasted another minute, before again, she felt compelled to break her stance.

"Why are you doing this?"

He looked up with a vaguely surprised and entirely thoughtful frown, flicking the metal pieces of his balance back into the box."Doing what?"

"Sanding that wood,  _fixing_  my drawer." She was standing before she knew it, pointing at the desk.  _He was doing it on purpose. Aggravating her with his serenity._ "I never asked you to fix _anything_."

 _The expected reply taking its time._  He was in no hurry. The glass-paper carefully placed to the side, as he inspected the final stage of his work. The long pause before he rose from his crouch, hoisted the drawer and started lining the edges with the desk, only speaking when he was certain the one was perfectly level with the other.

"First of all," he said, sounding rather satisfied. "…it's  _my_  drawer, Reinette. Not yours…" He slid the drawer in and took a step back, surveying his work. "…and second of all, this  _room_  is mine. That desk." He pointed. "That bed. And this drawer. So let's be frank about this…" He brushed off the wood-dust from his shirt. "…until you choose to stay here, I can fix anything I damn well please."

The veil was becoming an inconvenience, the material half-sticking to her mouth. She flipped it out of the way. "You cannot fix me."

"Oh ye of little faith…" He was examining the other drawers already. "We have the means, Reinette. We have the resources, the intelligence, the time. Imagine what we could do in a year…or even two." As though he had no need to say more on that particular subject, he stepped back from the desk…nodded…and then leaned over, picking up her tarnished book.  _The Count of Monte Cristo._ "Do you want this replaced?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" As though she had not spoken, he began flipping through the pages, examining the damage. Upon reaching the centre fold, he frowned, raised an eyebrow and then closed it before holding it out to her. "Half the pages are illegible…"

 _Only because you dropped an ink-well on them,_ she thought bitterly, replacing her veil.  _She had said more than she should. She was not going to be riled by him. Not this evening._

Staring at his hand for a moment, she looked suspiciously at him and then plucked the book from his hand, stepping back again, turning away briefly to run her palm over the back cover, checking its condition.  _He had been holding it by the spine._   _It was fragile._ His tendency for ransacking this room leading her to think twice before leaving anything within his reach.  _Where to leave the book?_ Her eyes going from the desk to the bedside table to the wardrobe. In the end, settling on the bedside table, where she placed the book and then herself between him and the book. The awkward silence as she waited for him to leave.

 _He moved_ …

…but not to the door _._

Taking a position against the wall, he crossed his arms and continued to survey her. His head slightly cocked to the side, completely still save for the movement in his eyes.  _He was thinking_. And after a moment, he spoke, the words suggesting he was perhaps familiar with some of the unease his presence could cause.  _As usual for one with a chip on his shoulder, he assumed it had to do with everything but his tendency to shove, push, and break everything around him._  "Reinette…you  _do_  realise I'm not going to bite you?"

She looked up. Firmly. "I am  _not_  afraid of your bite, Lyosha."

"Then you are angry…"

"I am not angry."

"Is it England? Lycans? Are we that foul?"

 _A simple apology would have been enough._ She could feel her jaw tightening. "No…"

"Is it the quarters…" He jerked from the wall, picking up the wooden box, setting it on the table and starting to organise its contents. "…because you will get larger quarters, Reinette, I promise you, ten years from now, this entire wing will probably be yours. You will be drowning in dresses…"

"I do not  _need_  another dress…"

He turned around, looking her square in the eye. "Then what do you need? What do you need to make this place your home, Reinette? What can I offer you that compares to…" He squinted, seeming unable to use his imagination to come up with the answer. "…what? What is out there for you?"  _To speak with such flippancy, one who was comfortable with ripping apart her past for the sake of his curiosity._  "Are there other exiles? Do you have a family?  _What_  are you looking for other than a deathdealer's knife slicing through your…"

He never finished the question. His words cut by the sound of breaking glass, the outcome of an inkwell being smashed against the floor. The sound surprising her for she had meant to use her lungs rather than the inkwell.

She had meant to scream at him.  _Scream at him to be quiet. Be silent. Leave._ Her hand shaking, and the world showing itself in blue and silver. Even her eyes had Changed. Her nails grown and her teeth bared. _She had not meant to throw it._

She breathed, lowering her hand, staring at the carpet.  _The blues fading into colour, the adrenaline carrying her for only a short time._   _Why did he have to be so intrusive? Her evening ruined. Her words cut in half every time she tried to say anything. Why could he not just let her be?_

From his vantage point, he watched her, his eyes moving from the veil to the broken glass. Grey eyes _c_ ontemplating her Change, thinking…pondering…and then he gestured, calm as the sea. _Speak. Even when she Changed, he did not react._

She swallowed the thought and then looked at the door, feeling…tired.  _Exhausted._   _Somehow it was easier to speak that way. At times, this room leading her to forget the world outside. How far she had come in just two brief months, the feeling of_ … _seclusion, the reformation they were slowly but surely drilling into her mind._

Her fingers touched her veil. "I comprehend that you want me to be content in this life, Lyosha, but…" It took much to say the words. "…I  _had_  a life before this…before Tanis…before…" She could not bring herself to say it.  _The Awakening. That devilish Awakening that stripped her of mind and body._  "…all that has happened. Am I to give up on it?" The question going unanswered. "Am I to assume that there is nothing…and no one…waiting for me simply because I cannot remember them?"

_To say it out loud._

_That fear. That loss of hearth and home, made all the worse because she could not remember_ … _and to say it in front of one who had seemed so cold by her first impression._  His expression suggesting he was attuned to her words, his arms remaining crossed, yet his manner…open. The silence continuing for a time, perhaps until he was certain she was finished…and then he gestured with a hand, the question indicated with an eye.  _Almost as though he were requesting permission to speak._

_From her._

Estranged, she found herself nodding.  _To acquire permission from a prisoner…it was no surprise that she was having trouble finding her balance in this cage. Why could he not act like a warden?_

He uncrossed his arms…his fingers already more interested in lining up her pens than staring at her face. His tone was surprisingly temperate. "I want you to listen carefully, Reinette…because I will only say this once." The brief pause as he inhaled, and then gestured at her veil. "Whatever you were before Tanis and that catacomb…whatever you looked like, sounded like…whatever your beliefs," he said. "…as life would have it, _something_  happened to you in that monastery and as a result…" He took a grip on the side of the desk and then looked at her.  _His gaze direct, the grey orbs for once holding a drop of pity_. "…whether you accept it now or in a hundred years, you are changed. You are  _not_  the same person. You may never  _be_  the same person…"

"I  _am_ the same," she said forcefully.  _To feel so small, his words almost lulling her into thinking he was on her side. As though he were saying these things to comfort her when truly, he only wished to break her with the knowledge of what was happening. Age_ … _memories_ … _her name_ ,  _even without those things, she was still herself. She still_ … _owned something in this place, even it was only that conviction._ "I may be unrecognisable, I may be at your mercy, but I am still… _myself_."

_It sounded so weak._

"Are you?" He seemed to see right through her veil. His question so simple and yet so trying. "Two months ago, you feared me as though I were the spawn of the earth." He shrugged. "Now you're willing to stand in a room and discuss furniture…is that something you would have done twenty years ago?"

 _She would not shake her head. She would not give him that much._ Her mind racing, trying to find her balance in the conversation.  _He unbalanced her. That was the problem._  "Perhaps I no longer fear lycans as I once did," she admitted. "…but that does not make me your  _tool_." The room felt hot. "You expect me to drop everything and agree to be part of this war when…"

_So many memories lost._

"…do you know I don't even  _understand_  the war," she said abruptly, looking over her shoulder.  _Bitterly_. Her own words making her want to turn, flee into wallpaper.  _The embarrassment of saying it out loud, admitting the simple details that she found confusing._

_The parts of her mind that were missing._

She shook her head, wanting to pace, wanting to escape the confines of her cage. "I  _know_  the war is there, I know, for whatever reason, lycans and vampires kill each other, but…it is  _not_  my war. I have  _no_  allegiance, I have  _no_  side, and you are…"  _Mentor, give her the strength to accuse those who would persecute her_. She forced her chin up.  _"_ …you are holding me here against my will."

"And what would be the alternative?" He had taken a seat on the floor, his legs crossed at the boot. His back still against the wall, continuing to observe her in stillness. "Supposing I had never arrived on Tanis' doorstep, Reinette, what would you have done?" Words spoken without malice or anger.  _He made everything seem so_ … _simple. Open. As though she were the irrational one._

_The stubborn one._

She made herself speak the words. "I could have woken…" She breathed. "…I  _could_  have found my way."

"Could you?" He appeared willing to play what was clearly a game to him. "Why not take it a step further," he asked. "Supposing Tanis  _had_  let you leave the monastery…" There was no threat in his tone, yet his words were cutting in their logic. "…with clothes and blood…which I highly doubt," he added. "You would have found your _'way'_  into three possible outcomes."

He reached across, picking up one of the glass pieces of the floor and holding it up. "One, death on the slope as the sun rises." His hand came beneath the glass, letting the ink drip onto his hand. "Two, capture by lycans, the filth of the earth and without me on your side, Reinette, I'm afraid dinner  _is_  served…or three…"

He flicked the glass into the fire grate. "…capture by  _your_  people which I believe involves a little something called 'absolution for one's sins against the coven'…" Again, that sense that he had moved beyond such trivialities. "…case closed. Sun rises. Stake cleaned. Am I missing anything?" And for a moment, he seemed to be seeing through her. Flint entering the grey, so that she found herself staring into…darkness.  _An abyss that held the nothing he once spoke of._  The moment passing so quickly that she might have imagined it.

The rest of her protests unravelling as she realised he was in far more control of this argument than she was.  _Standing with her instead of above her. Using words like we and us. Giving her a name and then using it so much that she began to think it was real. That her name was Reinette, that she had come to life on his ship…that her place was here. But it was a fabrication. He was fabricating this life…and though she was starting to believe in the security of its walls…she could not be caged again._

The sentence off her tongue before she could stop it. _The weakness. The shame of having reached that point. But she was tired of these games. Tired of this place. Tired of this warden who cornered her with words._  She did not  _want_  to be here. "Lyosha, you have  _not_  used me with your council yet…" She was pleading with him. "I am no danger to you. I will probably be dead within the next ten years. If you let me go, I would tell  _no one_  of your identity…"

"You would  _plan_  to tell no one," he said clearly, the tone suggesting that, by his estimation, plans had a habit of falling through. But he seemed to take in stride. "…and should you escape, you would be a danger to my cause, Reinette…" He was staring at her, the attention almost forcing her to look away…and then he raised a hand. "…but I am trusting you and in two weeks, I am unlocking this door and giving you free reign in the catacombs. You may find the exit…you may even breathe the air outside…but I believe, without doubt or reservation, that you will turn around."

Her hand became a fist. "I will not."

"Yes you will." He was frowning at the floor, starting to rub one of the defects with his thumb.  _His voice one of clarity. Honesty. One who had nothing to hide._  "You were born in a catacomb, and now you must choose your path. On your left, a world fraught with danger, and on your right, an ally that wishes you well if you would but  _trust_  him."

"A catacomb is not a symbol of trust." Her back was as straight as she could make it.  _She was a blood-seer. She could not be caged. She would not be used by a tyrant simply because he knew how to talk her into seeing his point of view. She would take the escape if he gave it to her. She would leave England. She would get out of here_ …

"I believe it is, Reinette." Across from her, he had already taken hold of her doubt. "A second Awakening. The terms harsh, but the same had you never met me…and all you have to do is  _choose_. Choose my way. See what you could become in just a  _few_  years if you are patient. You would have freedom to roam without a blindfold. You could interact with those around you, even leave the grounds with an escort." His manner so sincere, outlining it as though it were real. "You would be fully integrated. Included in our culture, our people…"

"I have no people."

 _As soon as she said it, she knew it to be true. The bloodseers were buried to the last bone. All of them save for herself._  Her words seemed to catch him off guard. The declaration causing him to…stop. She did not understand what she was seeing in his eyes, that which caused him to look away.

Scowling at the broken glass, he seemed to pick himself up, so that within seconds he had regained his standing. "This is  _another_  thing that I am only going to say once, Reinette…" So firm in his conviction. " …my people can be your people. It is a lasting offer, one that I will stand by…" His words like a rock in the face of her stubbornness. "…and after twenty years, woman, who else do you think is waiting for you?"

She felt her back stiffen. The words in the air now, forcing her to look at the hard truth of life.  _Twenty years. Someone must have known her destination_ … _yet in twenty years, no one came looking for her. The concept of being alone finally starting to hit her across the face._ And again, she found herself falling from the rock.  _No more strength to fight against what he was telling her. No more strength. But…_ Mentor give her strength. _She did not need for him to believe. Her allies might be dead, her resources gone, her ties cut…_

 _…but she was leaving this place. Whatever he said, she was leaving._  Not even bothering to wipe her cheek, she made a brief sound, acknowledging his point, before retreating to her chair, picking up the English reader and finding her place in the book again.  _The argument was over._

_For all intensive purposes, he had won._

But though it should have been his cue to leave, he still had not moved from the floor. The space behind her chair growing uncomfortable. A series of sounds as if he were packing up his tools, about to say something and then cutting himself off. The long interlude suggesting he was considering and throwing away topics of conversation as quickly as he thought of them. His voice finally intruding on her thoughts again. "So how is the English coming?"

"Fine," she murmured in Russian. And then… "Good," she added…in English.  _The one word she could say comfortably. Everything else sounded garbled._

"Good," he replied.  _The word far smoother when he said it_. He was clearly trying to leave, but in the end, he stepped around and dropped himself into the seat across from her, scratching his neck beneath the beard.  _The skin was looking raw._  He was scowling. "…I think I ruined your evening," he said abruptly.

She did not look beyond the page. "It was ruined already," she said softly, masking her surprise with coldness. The veil _._  "…coming in and simply telling me the facts of life does not make the facts worse."

"Yes, but…" He seemed almost perplexed by the words coming out of his own mouth. "…I  _regret_ that the facts are…as they are…" His hand reaching up to loosen his cravat. The silence weighing for a moment before he exhaled. "…and they  _are_  probably still alive, you know."

She shook her head. "Not the bloodseers."

"No, I know that…" He seemed lost in thought. "…but I meant…whoever else was waiting for you. Immortal or not, they could still be alive…" He thumbed the side of the armchair. "…and as they say, disappearance is sometimes better than death. Whoever they are, I'm sure they would be relieved to know you are alive and kicking."

 _Better than crying._ She sniffed, making herself say something. Making herself pretend that everything was fine. "I do not kick," she murmured.  _She knew he would latch onto it. He would bite and she would bite, and for a brief moment, she would forget that she was his prisoner._

He leaned back in his chair, surveying her. "You kick in your sleep. You kick when you're drunk…and you kicked Raze," he said…and then without warning, he laughed softly, as though thinking of something that had just happened. "Speaking of kicking, why were you so quiet around Allegra the other day?" He started pulling the cushions off the chair. "I asked you a perfectly normal question, and you clammed up like a virgin on Sunday." He seemed to consider keeping the last cushion, only to sniff it, scowl, and subsequently drop it to the side with the rest. "I hope she's prompting you to speak your mind."

 _Blood, he was worth an eye-roll._  She exhaled, turning the page. "Lyosha, I think you're the only one that  _prompts_  people to speak their minds." _A virgin on Sunday_   _indeed_ …

"I should hope so," he muttered. He was looking behind her at the door. He clearly wanted to leave, yet something was keeping him.  _Perhaps the guilt from having crushed the mental state of two women in so many weeks_. "So on the scale of feeling better, are we talking about a five or a seven out of ten?"

"A two."

"Right." He had that look of impatience. Staring about the room as though it had the answer to how he might leave it. After a moment, he cocked an eye at her. "Do you want to hear something funny?"

"No," she said, a bit more firmly. S _he was starting to see where Sabine had got her persistence_.  _She was old and after the evening's conversation, she was not in the mood for 'something funny.' It only made it worse that he looked young. Active. The entire world was his oyster and he was offering her a pebble._

"Come on, Reinette…" He hooked the back of his boot over the other, leaning back into the chair. "It really  _is_  funny." He stretched, forcing his arm into a position it really should not have been, doing the same with the other before letting it hang from the sides.  _He was getting comfortable._  "Least I can do for telling you how miserable life is."

_This could go on all night._

_Certainly into the morning._

She let the book fall in her lap. "Fine."

 _Her answer met with his approval_. "Excellent." He slapped his knee and sat forward, laying things out with a hand. "Tell me if I'm going too fast," he said. "Corporal enters the barracks. He says ' _Lycan_ …" His voice rose. "…these rifles have not been cleaned in six months. What do you have to say for yourself?' And the soldier says, 'But, sir, this is no fault of mine…you know I've only been stationed here for  _three_  months." He emphasised the 'three' and then paused, waiting for her reaction. "Three months, Reinette. Get it?"

_Barracks humour._

_It would be._

She exhaled. " _Yes_ , Lyosha, I see the humour."

"The hell you do…" He grinned briefly, at the same time looking genuinely perplexed that she was not guffawing on the floor. "You think you have something better?" He raised a hand, inviting her answer. "Please, woman, astound me with your abilities."

 _Woman. He always called her woman. As though they were still living in the dark ages._ The book found its way back in front of her face. "Do not go seeking for things you would rather not know, Lyosha."

He smirked. "Go on then."

 _Ugh._  She turned a page.  _This household was affecting her_ … _though ladies were meant to be sweet and polite, she had things to say that would curl his ears._  "The title of the joke is a lycan, a dog, and some bear testicles…are you sure you want to hear where it goes?"

He slapped his knee again. "See that's funny, Reinette…"  _Difficult to tell whether he was being sarcastic or not_. He stood.. "…you could have a whole  _den_  of lycans slapping their knees at that one…" He shrugged. "…and it's not  _all_  bad. You like the room, you like the company. We're making progress."

She continued to read. "Who said I liked the company?"

He squinted, cocking his head as though she had made a joke, shook it and then stalked over to the desk, retrieving his wooden box.  _Only when he passed her chair did he answer her question_. "I said it…just now. You look like you like it…you smell like you do…and the only reason you're keeping that book is because I left a saffron flower between its pages. Correct me if I'm wrong?"

She looked through her veil. _Coldly._   _It was happening again. Standing on the rock and finding herself falling on the wrong side of reason. She was a bloodseer. She was not a creature of a lycan household. She was_ …She forced herself to speak. "Lyosha, has anyone  _ever_  told you there is a mild odour of conceit on your person?"

"Many times, Reinette, but I think…" He was at the door already, the tools under his arm. He squinted, looking at the ceiling again, as though the very concept was altogether too deep for his person. "…yes, I  _think_ , you're the only one that genuinely likes it." He shrugged.  _Sarcasm incarnate._  "Funny how that works…"

The door shut behind him…

Leaving her with…her fists…curled into…little balls.  _The most foolish reason in the world to look forward to these meetings, the fault of weakness. Shallow reasoning and_ … _vulnerability. She was vulnerable without her memories. Vulnerable when her mentor spoke of one thing and her_ … _her emotions told of her something else. Warmth. That flicker of warmth_ … _of all the things to be experiencing in the midst of her imprisonment._ Her final thought causing her to fling the English reader across the room, the book hitting the wall with a resounding thud.

_Why could he not have been ugly?_


	43. A Hole in the Ground

**Chapter XLIII: A Hole in the Ground**

_December 17, 1899. Two weeks later._

It was the night before her leave-taking. Her dresses and skirts hanging from the wardrobe, her stockings and petticoats set aside for warmer attire—the clothes Allegra had made for her, her coat and boots on the floor, and a pair of woollen blankets folded for colder nights. All her books, save the memory journal, were to be left in the room and although her lessons would continue in the catacombs, Rena would bring such things only for the time in which they were required.

Little else to do now but wait, her evening and midnight taken up by most of the second book, the Jules Verne novel,  _A_   _Journey to the Interior of the Earth_. She had not paid much attention to it in the past weeks, but the subject felt closer given the task ahead of her. The hours taking her into the first chapter, but the language creating a barrier. Only a few words sticking out from the rest…and her interest piqued when, upon growing impatient with the speed, she began to skip through the words only to find a name in Icelandic.  _Something she could read. Finally._

The knock upon the door causing her to look up.

_Allegra._

She closed the book and stood, folding her arms around the tome, adjusting her veil before she called out. "Come in."  _Hesitation over giving orders to one who had been so good to her_. She waited patiently, readying herself to greet…only to close her eyes in slight exasperation as the door opened; a slight exhale as she resumed her seat, the book opening before she had even dropped into the chair.  _"_ I thought you were Allegra."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He was dressed impeccably.  _The beard trimmed, the hair recently cut._ His evening attire consisting of a dark suit, the white collar set in contrast to the necktie. Silk, loosely-tied, yet maintaining an air of precision.  _If her estimation of time was correct_ _—gauged only by the brief gnawing in her stomach—_ _then he appeared to be on his way to dinner_ _._ He nodded to himself, hands behind his back, and then gave a cursory smile. "I trust you are well this evening?"

"As well as can be expected," she replied, eyeing him from her chair.  _He was acting suspicious. He had knocked on the door for perhaps the first time since their acquaintance_ … _he was not in the midst of pulling off his collar, and after two weeks, he still appeared to be sober._

He nodded as though he truly had been concerned, and then, with a casual hand, indicated the door. "Care for a stroll?"

Her veil managed to catch most of what ended up being a dry cough followed by a mild period of choking on spit. She swallowed. "What?"

"A stroll, Reinette. It involves the legs." He was holding a walking stick. "You understand, we will not go far…however I do have a few…things…I wish to show you before you descend into the interior of the earth."  _He said the last words in English. A subtle reminder. He could see what she was reading._

She did not put the book down.  _She did not trust this situation. He might put her in another cage. Lock her up somewhere. Trick her into doing_ … _something. He was not to be trusted._  "I've had enough of blindfolds, Lyosha."

"No blindfold."

_Blood damn him._

She put the book down. "A trick?"

"No trick." He was remarkably focused this evening.  _Usually his fingers moving, his feet pacing, his attention taken by all but the one in front of him._ "Merely a truce…for one night before you leave us for the underground. There will be no talk of memories, no mention of anything that causes you distress." He held an arm out. "Will you come?"

A curse threatened to escape her lips. "I am not dressed appropriately."

"You will but pass from one room to the next, Reinette…" He indicated the door again. "…and the only company you will keep this evening is myself. I believe you are dressed enough for that."

She did not answer him. She was holding back.  _She did not want to see. For the past two weeks, she had heard noises outside her room_ … _pushing and pulling. No one speaking yet always the distinct impression that a mob of boorish men were cleaning the room beyond her door. She should have known he would try and tempt her._

"Will you come," he said again.  _Serious. Polite._

 _His manner persuasive. The prospect of what lay beyond her door causing her to drown the voice of her mentor. If she was to die in the next year, at least let her have experienced_ … _something. Something beyond the bare surroundings she would soon find herself in._  She stood. "Very well," she replied begrudgingly, placing the book on the bedside table. "…I will come." She walked past the arm.  _She would not do it. Not now. Not ever._ The foolishness of taking the arm of a gentleman when she was dressed in such…plain attire.

He had not moved, his arm still outstretched, waiting for her. "It is to be a  _truce_ , Reinette."

"How is this not a truce…" She pointed to the steps ahead of her.  _All three steps._  "I am walking to the door, you are walking to the door. We are  _both_  walking to the door, Lyosha. I may be weak, but I do not need an arm to get me there."

"Allow me to put it this way then…" He and his arm came to stand beside her before the door, frowning at the wood panelling.  _He seemed to have come to terms with both the wood and the concept he was speaking of._ "According to the rules of modern etiquette, I politely offer you my arm and you politely accept it." He looked down at her. "It involves pretending for a moment that you accepted my offer of truce and that we are now old acquaintances. Mayhap even friends."

She narrowed her eye at him _._  The minutes passing as he continued to stand, waiting, as though she truly were the hawk he required in order to do his hunting.  _Blood, to be rid of him._ She exhaled and then placed her hand on his arm, grateful for the gloves that covered her skin.  _Anything to help her forget what she had become. The age that plagued her fingers._

"See how easy that was," he said, and with his other hand, he turned the handle.  _Candlelight._

_And then she woke._

_o _…_ o _…_ o  
_

Dirt on her face, the cold stone beneath her back. She had been dreaming, her memories of that night…three nights ago now…so removed from this place that one might think she had imagined it. No candlelight now…only darkness. Her eyes managing to see around the next bend of the tunnel, but her legs exhausted. The cold blood she had drunk the night before wearing away.  _She was starving; he must have known she would have to turn back;_ _frequently, if she did not find some means of carrying food with her_. Scrubbing the dirt from her cheek, she sat up, searching for the blanket, only to find she had shoved it aside while she slept, the majority of the cloth now covered in the filth that plagued these tunnels.  _Foolish to have brought it, yet the cold necessitated more than just the clothes on her back._   _The walls closing in on her, as though she had been swallowed by a mountain._ Her thoughts drifting in and out again as she began to crawl back to the start of the tunnel…

…her memories of how she came to this place.

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

In the early hours of morning, the night after their truce, he had brought her down with her eyes covered. No longer wearing the suit, the efficiency returned now that the truce was ended. Despite her protest, Rena carried her for much of the way, her ability to tell left from right lost as they travelled down into the depths. Doors opening and shutting, staircases going up and down, the noise of the wind dying away as the air grew colder and colder. The blindfold had come off…and the tour had begun.

The hole that was to be her home for the next year. A set of two prison cells branching onto a third; it was in the third that he had pointed out the tunnels, three of them branching in separate directions, the number of twists and turns unaccounted for…  _Should she lose her way and still wish to return_ , he pointed above them… _along each turn, there was an arrow slot in the rock above their heads. She need only call out. Two levels to the catacombs, the upper one mostly intact and accessible to both Rena and himself._   _They would be able to bring her back._ He had returned to the first cell, indicating the small table . _Although she was not required to return on a daily basis, food would be left at the hour of seven_ … _and Singe would arrive soon after for the sake of her English lessons. If she lost track of time or did not show within the first ten minutes of the lesson, the man would leave._

He had returned to the third cell, crouching by one of the tunnels, placing a hand on the left wall.  _For the sake of respect, he would prefer if she did not deface any of the bones that she came across, whether they were lying in state or had fallen as a result of attack. In the same token_ …he had indicated a second slot in the ceiling, one that appeared to be closed… _any bones that appeared to be charred in any way should serve as a warning. Over the years in which they were built—many, many years ago_ , he added, _when they were still staking their claim on this land—it had been practice to build traps into the ceiling, small holes reflecting the sun through a sequence of mirrors. The catacombs serving initially as a home and then developing into a storage facility for the dead, before eventually becoming a deathtrap for their enemies._

 _His explanation of the mechanism doing little to alleviate her fears._  The concept that, centuries ago, any lycan in trouble could escape into the catacombs and, by virtue of a shut door, rely on both the sun and his comrades to take care of the rest…a number of the mirrors broken, but most of them still operational.  _The resulting beam not a strong one this time of year, but certainly capable of wounding._ For the sake of safety, it would be best if she kept track of time and avoided any holes in the ceiling…

Behind him, she caught the yellow eyes of Rena looking at her, the directness of the woman's gaze finally causing her to speak up. Admit that the pendant-watch was lost, that she had no means of tracking time. As expected, the revelation had little impact on him; there was no suggestion of a replacement.  _As she lacked time, she would simply have to take care not to sleep beneath an open suntrap unless she enjoyed the smell of burning flesh. That was all._  The reminder that her captor was a creature of many facets, a chameleon who could unbalance both his enemies and allies _. If he chose to care, he cared_ … _and when he did not, he was honest about it. One moment, her warden telling her to face the miserable facts of life_ …

… _and the night before_ … _a different person._  A gentleman, charming and at his ease, pouring her a drink over a small dining table set in the shadows of an abandoned room.  _The windows covered in black, the stored furniture covered in white, like hills of snow in the dark, so that the only mark of colour lay in their food._   _Hawk's blood. Spices. The frozen marrow of Devil's Ice to finish the meal, followed by a small glass of_ _Bikavér_ _. The proper amount this time._ The meal followed by a lesson in the number of years since her memory had played chess. Her strategy proving rusty, while his proved courteous, allowing her to win at least two of the four games that they played.

At the time, she had expected him to ask after her memories, to intrude upon her past, but he was true to his word. Perhaps remembering her interest in the ink-filled pen, he had led her to the far end of the room and shown her an array of things laid out on a table. Items invented in the past twenty years, things she had never seen let alone dreamt.  _A small photograph of an enormous structure, a metal tower reaching into the sky. Paris, it said upon the back. 1892. A small book of matches, easily struck, the fire glowing between her fingers within seconds. A machine with a small disc turning upon its wood, the horn emitting_ … _sound, as though it contained a string instrument beneath the cobwebs, the unexpected noise causing her to step back, her teeth growing out of_ … _shock._

To his credit, he did not laugh at her. Instead, he talked…he told her things of the outside world…the changes that had occurred in the past two decades. Incandescent lights on the streets, electric currents that could travel through the air without wires, carriages that moved across the ground without horses or steam. Things that truly excited him about the mortals living in this age. The evening ending on a strange note…a warm farewell at her door…and a feeling of melancholy.

Far removed from his actions of the next morning…the warm farewell replaced by a curt motion as he finished the tour and turned away, Rena shutting the door behind them, the gust of wind causing her to shiver as she surveyed her…prison. The first cell containing a table…two chairs, her journal, pen and ink laid on the open space. The second cell holding dust, mold and scratchings on the wall. The third cell the worst of all. An eerie darkness emitting from each of the three tunnels that branched from its centre, the inky black hinting at the bowels of a grave.  _She was_ … _here. Her heart beating faster_ … _that feeling of_ … _familiarity. An unruly fear, one that she must control or bow before_ … _the smell of rat faeces, dried bones, and stale air._ She stood in the centre, turning slowly, holding herself back…and then jerked as she stepped on something. A rat crawling underfoot. The squeak as it fled, not into one of the tunnels that surrounded her, but into a hole in the second cell.

Her fears carrying her back into the first cell. Minutes passing, hours as she shivered on the chair, waiting for something to change. Wrapping the blanket around herself, her legs drawn up so that no part of her was touching the filth on the floor.  _She could not be afraid of the dark. She was a vampire. A creature of the dark._ But the shadows of the room seemed to move, her breath seeming loud when compared to the silence of this forgotten place.  _No one had been down here in decades_ … _and for the first time since waking, she found herself struggling with another emotion she had not felt since she was a child. A mortal child born in a world where the midnight sun did not set. A memory of sitting by the fire, clutching onto her mother_ … _deathly afraid of what was to happen at the summer's end._ Her breath catching as she held onto her knees, staring into the tunnel, the black hole visible through the open doorway.

 _That childhood fear that if she stared into the black, she would see the Stallos, the hideous giants of the underworld, creatures who sucked out the blood of mortals with an iron pipe._ Memories of the day her mother took her to that cave and left her in the hands of Áris, her debt repaid and her child slated for a different life.  _A life of history, language, and lore_ … _her nights spent in the dark and her days spent doing chores for one_ _who could not leave the darkness of a cave. Áris whom she had served for sixteen years as a mortal, learning from her mentor and doing all that her mentor could not_ … _only to find after sixteen years that her mother had given her up for a reason. That somehow_ … _Áris and her mother had known she would take to the bite._

 _That she would give up the sun and retreat into darkness, her body to be the vessel of a bloodseer's legacy_ … _far removed from the dangers of the coven. Far removed from the war that plagued those in the eastern lands. And for the first twenty years of her life as a Blood, she had believed herself to be_ … _undead. The monster of the cave, the very Stallos that her mother had taught her to fear as a child. Over time, embracing the dark, believing that she and the dark were one._ She remembered learning to fight. Learning to blend with the night. Learning to suck the blood of mortals with the teeth her mentor had given her.  _Learning that she would never age. That she would never die. She had believed_ _Áris. Believed that Áris would be with her always_ …

But seated on the chair, for the first time, she remembered those early days. The days before she had descended into the underground… _the days when her mother had protected her from the darkness of the caves. And for the first time, in a thousand years, she noticed the absence of her mother_ …

… _and she remembered that she was afraid of the dark._

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

On the second day, she did not remember falling asleep…but she woke to find blood on the table. Rena had come and left again without waking her.  _She suspected Singe had also chosen to leave, for the blood was almost frozen as though it had been lying there for hours._ Her teeth chattering as she supped, warming the blood in her mouth before swallowing. Her clothes already starting to feel…worn.  _Allegra had given her the clothes of a traveller_ _. A woollen shirt covering her to the neck, the skirt replaced by breeches fitted as well as they could be, so that she might crawl unobstructed._ She would need to clean them eventually…something to which she did not look forward; Rena had left an ice-cold bucket of water near the door… _but she had a few days yet. She would not have to strip until absolutely necessary. The dark still causing her to hesitate, but the blood giving her some strength of mind. The reminder that she was a creature of the night. No longer mortal._ _No longer a child._

She set out for the first tunnel, forced to bend at the waist and crawl as the ceiling began to lower.  _The air growing thinner. The cold slowing her down. The gloves barely keeping her hands warm as she made her way to the first turning. Two holes above her head, both of them dark._ Eying them askance, she passed carefully around them and took the right turn, continuing to take the right turn at each branch until she reached a dead-end. Another arrow-hole above her head…and a bone. Crushed beneath the weight of something large. Without touching it, she turned back…and took a left, eventually turning back again as she reached another fork.  _The maze and the tunnels starting to mirror one another._ She would need some means of tracking her progress…eventually returning to the cell and coming to the conclusion that she would need only one blanket for warmth. A number of hours spent unravelling the fabric and strengthening the thread.  _Memories of working with wool, weaving clothes as a child. Strange that her strongest memories would begin so early_ … _almost as though she were being reborn. Her life relived as she remembered it, starting as a child._

Seated at the table, she began to wind the thread into a ball, the process taking time. Arduous. Night and day passing without any sense of time. The sense of missing all that she had grown used to upstairs…warmth, companionship, Rena always waking her at seven. In the tunnels, there was no time. When she was hungry, she returned, drinking cold blood…and as soon as she was stronger, she embarked once more into each of the tunnels. Despairing as the layout became unclear, the turns more frequent, the floor and ceiling less stable…at one point, reaching a collapsed section, gashing her knee before she had cause to turn back.  _He had not lied when he told her it was neverending_ _._ A labyrinth…a revelation of what these lycans had been doing in secret for the past millennium, the lengths they had gone to survive beneath the noses of both mortals and vampires alike. Her movements becoming slower. The earth nestling her in its grave-like womb, so that after a time, it was as though she had always been there. The exhaustion and cold leading her to sleep, hours and hours of sleep in the tunnel that had become her new home.

 _o_ … _o_ … _o_

_December 22, 1899. Elsewhere._

Hot fire in the pit, sparks flying, the heat welcome despite the sweat pouring down his back. The itch retreating as the days passed. He had been coming down here for almost a week now, heating and clamping the different grades of metal, hammering them into the shapes that he required.  _One particular piece taking his attention this evening, the long hours of work spent in anticipation of what was to be a day of_ _gift-giving_ … _or the casting off of debts, depending on how one looked at the subject._  Naturally, there had been some debate as to whether or not he had lost that bet against Allegra, but for the sake of…goodwill, he supposed…he was willing to admit defeat and make an effort on behalf of Raze.  _Nothing overt_ …

_Just a simple knife._

_The mirror of one he had made about three hundred years ago. Raze had admired the balance, and being less inclined towards keeping his own handiwork, he had tossed it to the man without regret. Little did they know it would end up at the bottom of a river, three days later, stuck in the back of someone's armour. Hindsight._ Having no time to go back, they had moved on, but he suspected Raze had felt some…irritation…at losing the knife so quickly.  _He had intended to reshape the blade, howeve_ _r_ …one thing led to another and three hundred years passed. Obviously, he would make a few improvements. Not as much twist in the hilt. A few alterations in the grade of metal. The wolfhead shaped with more detail. Better tools making for a better weapon…

His thoughts moving down two separate paths as his ears pricked up. Behind, he could hear two sets of footsteps _. Light and heavy_ … _a child and an adult, the first likely to be Sabine and the second too light to be Raze—who was being kept from the forge by Allegra—which left Rena._ The back door opening, the excited gasp of the younger and the silence of the older confirming his analysis. He continued pounding at the blade, knowing Rena would keep Sabine back from the heat. The colour of the metal leading him to put it in on the coals again, watching it carefully, unwilling to drop his tasks for the sake of a greeting…the two of them taking a seat on the bench to wait, Sabine on the edge, nearly bursting with questions, but kept quiet by Rena.  _Likely a deal had been struck. Quiet in exchange for seeing the lycan-master in his forge._  Fifteen minutes passing as he continued to work until finally…

…steam rising. The blade sitting in a vat of water, quenched until he had time to work on the handle. Sabine threatening to leap off the bench and Rena taking her by the arm, holding her back. He turned, stepping away from the heat, wiping his hands on the leather apron.  _Lycan or mortal, a burn was a burn_ … _and despite only having suffered about two serious accidents in his lifetime, having the ability to heal one's skin did not make it hurt any less._ Approaching a second bucket and dousing a cloth, he wiped some of the grime away before turning to face them. Rena blank in the eyes, and Sabine mesmerised by the coals. The scratch across her cheek starting to heal up nicely, the hair covering her missing ear. Her eyes lighting up as she saw the other project he was working on, the broken sword sitting in pieces on one of the tables. The eagerness growing in her mouth…

He cut it in half. "No."

"But I…"

"I'll think about it when you're seventy…" He flung the cloth onto the table and found a stool, dragging it over to sit in front of them. "Rena, you have about a minute and thirty-eight seconds before that fire starts changing colour, so I'd suggest you report now."

"She's stopped moving."

He stopped himself from picking at his teeth.  _Grime in mouth_ … _not such a good idea._ "If she's stopped moving, that means she's stopped moving away from the den. Call me when things get dire…" He got up again.

"She does not return to the cells either." The words barely above a murmur. Rena smelling as though she did not care, while her presence spoke volumes.  _He had given her the task of watching over Reinette as she traversed the tunnels, her days and nights spent on the second level of the catacombs, peering through the arrow holes._ Her eyes now on the ground as she described what was going on several meters below their feet… "She barely eats…she does not move…" The final sentence taking much out her apathy.

"Is she alive?"

"Yes."

"Then she has made her bed and she is lying in it." He picked up the tongs, moving onto more interesting matters. _The little girl that had fallen into his lap three years ago._ She had moved onto Rena's lap, but was following the conversation fiercely, her eyes moving from one to the other.  _Red hair. Grey eyes. She might still have an ear if he had brought her across the Channel sooner_. _Her scent reminding him of himself, reminding him of that short period in the seventeenth century when he had lost track of the moons. The only time in seven hundred years during which he could have fathered a line unknowingly. No way of knowing now unless they could trace her ancestors back to the seventeenth century. Even then, he had no proof beyond the words of a dead woman that he was her grandsire_ … "Sabine, tell me…do you recall what Allegra said in the dining hall yesterday?"

She nodded obediently, eager to latch onto any attention he happened to drop in her direction. _A quick child. Quick on her feet and surprisingly good at listening given her wound._

He leaned forward, bending down so he was at her level. "And assuming I were to follow the instructions of your godmother, if I were to take time out of my busy schedule and make you something that was neither sharp nor dangerous, what would that be?"

"A knife."

"Correct." He was now examining a small piece of steel left over from one of the scraps he had used earlier. "…and when Allegra asks you what I am giving you this solstice, you will tell her…"

"A doll."

"Excellent." He straightened up and went over to work the bellows, watching the coals heat up again.  _Not often in his nature to make things for people_ … _but the season was upon them. Four days until his personal version of hell broke loose in the floors above them. Singing, raucous behaviour_ … _people attempting to strike up conversations about_ … _charity, peace, and goodwill towards others. Reinette might envy those above her, but in many ways, he envied the silence of those catacombs._

_The peace that could be found in a grave._

__o_ … _o_ … _o_  
_

And so it was that for the first time, since being charged with Reinette's care, that Rena found herself facing a dilemma. Below ground, she watched from her perch, the arrow slot she peered through seeming to hold the body of her charge, the head leaning against the one edge and the feet against the other.  _For days, she watched. Silent and steadfast. The chest rising and falling…but the eyes closed. Asleep._

Instinct telling her to check the pulse, but the instructions of Lucian telling her to let the woman be…her belief in her task leading her to look beyond distraction, impatience…the capacity of a leader to misjudge danger for the mere fact that if he could survive something then everyone else should be able to as well.  _On such things, she had no opinion…_

…and so she waited for something dire to happen.  _The chest slowing with every turn of the hourglass. The breath fading from the woman's mouth. A single thought touching in her subconscious.  
_

It would happen soon.

 


	44. The Warmth of Something Dire

**Chapter XLIV: The Warmth of Something Dire**

_Three days later._

_And so it was that Rena waited for something dire to happen._ A chest slowing with every turn of the hourglass. The breath fading from a woman's mouth. For Lucian, such things were circumstantial. A lesson for the lady in question and a reason to turn his attention to other diversions. The annual festivities of a season, that singular time when he would be most preoccupied with the social aspects of his world. His thoughts mingling with light and life rather than darkness and death, for it was the former pair that had taken precedence in the upper floors of the den.

It was Christmas morning, and the great hall was decorated in all its glory. Wreaths of holly hanging above the rafters and a chain of bright chandeliers lighting the rooms. The scent of evergreen branches and mistletoe mingling with the soft perfume of ladies and the crisp tobacco of their gentlemen. By the windows, a small orchestra played a dance, causing the older folk to mill near the fireplaces, their conversation stimulating, albeit interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet. With the full moon banished by the sun, even the children had free reign, some of them displaying their teeth, hiding behind skirts and dodging one another as they waited for the hour to tear open their gifts.

Dressed to the nines, Lucian was surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen, the subject matter moving rapidly from investments to the last horse that Diggory happened to see prior to the races being shut down.  _Diggory being a small, intense child of twelve who seemed rather set on acquiring a number of investors to purchase the creature for him._

_The answer being no._

Several couples down from him, Raze was attending on Allegra, whose hand was firmly attached to the arm of her husband, the ivory on her wrist casually displaying her new status.  _The first time she had walked these halls as a married woman._ The lady whispered something of import into her husband's ear, eventually causing a remarkably deep grin to appear on the man's face before they leaned in close and…

…that was his cue to leave.

Excusing himself from the conversation, he turned away, drink in hand, already considering how best to navigate his way without appearing as though he were running. His endeavours paused for a brief moment as Sabine scampered into his path, holding up her dance card and the small pencil attached to it. _She had acquired a lengthy list of partners, and despite knowing his habit of avoiding dance, she wanted a full set._ He eyed the card…and then crouched down long enough to write "Diggory" before sending her off on her way.

_He was leaving._

Passing ever so slowly through the crowd, occasionally returning a greeting as he moved along, he left his glass on a table and stepped through the open doors into the main hall…where apparently a throng of young, powdered women had decided to take up residence. All of their eyes turning to him before flicking back to the lady at their centre.  _The tension growing by about…twelve hands._

_Jacqueline._

She was staring at him, red-eyed, her nails clenched around her fan _._ The hands of at least three ladies patting her shoulder simultaneously, all of them glaring at him as though he had grown a second head.  _Understandable._

 _According to the Line Rumour, they were all under the impression that he had slept with no less than nine other women whilst in her company…when really, it had been one._ He eyed the lot of them, considered whether etiquette was really all it was cracked up to be…and then by chance, was pulled aside by Rena, who mysteriously required his attention.

 _Rena, who was meant to be downstairs after having chosen to opt out of Christmas, if such a thing were possible._ Her eyes moving coldly over the fluttering geese, giving them cause to step back as she informed him of what was occurring below. The news causing him to look at her…and then move…

… _fast._

_o…o…o_

_Four minutes later._

He skidded to a halt in the main entrance chamber of the catacombs.  _No time to think._ His coat thrown onto the table, exchanged for the bowl of blood still sitting there from the previous evening. With his hands spread over the top of the bowl, he darted forward. Growling at Rena to wake Singe. His nose making it simple for him to duck into the second tunnel. Three paces forward, then left into the first quarter.

_Rena had given him a bearing. South by south-west._

Within seconds, he found signs of passage, a smear of blood-stained ash beneath a sun-trap, a piece of string on the rocks, the remnants of a blanket shoved into a corner.  _She was down here somewhere._  He sniffed the blanket.  _Usually a scent called to him, but hers was faint…at least two turns making him pause before he made his choice._ It was difficult to distinguish between the past and the present, the smell of the wool calling him left, left…and then right. The pattern repeating itself until it became clear how she was choosing her path.  _Left, left, right._

His efforts finally rewarded by a pale wrist jutting out of a small hollow beneath a rock _. Six minutes._  Still trying not to spill, he placed the bowl he was still carrying on one of the burial slots in the wall and then turned back to the opposite tunnel. Kneeling on the ground beside the wrist, hoping to blood this was a trick. Willing her hand to rise up.  _Stab him in the face. Throw a rock at him. Anything._

"Reinette."

He said it with a forced callousness, the tone of one who was not in the mood for 'tired.' The hand did not move.  _Fuck._ He pressed two fingers on her wrist, feeling for a pulse. Counting four seconds…and then, cursing under his breath, he ducked down even further, turning his head sideways to peer into her hiding place.  _It was more of a slice than a hole. She was lying on her front, her face turned away from him, her knees curled up to her chest._

He hissed her name again.

_No answer._

_Eight minutes._ Forced to do something now, he wedged his arm into the space, managing to get a grip beneath her armpit. The angle and gravity fighting against him until she slid over…and then out onto the tunnel floor. Her face fell in the dirt. Bruises covering every scrap of her skin. Dirt smeared across her neck as though it had clung there decades ago.

_She looked dead._

Instinctively, he turned back to the tunnel, looking for Rena, suddenly conscious of what needed to happen next.  _His eyes pinpointing the sun-traps until he found a spot that would not be compromised by the changing angle of the sun_. With his destination in mind, he kneeled down again, hoisting her up and carrying her along the edges of the tunnel until they were deeper in the dark. The rocks hard underfoot as he laid her out on the tunnel floor and then retrieved the blood, placing the bowl beside her.  _Bones shoved aside so he could work. His hands moving faster than his brain to the point that he was muttering without realising it._

He slapped her across the cheek, keeping the bulk of his strength back. "Come on, Reinette…wake up."  _It was a tall order. But death was not an option…if not for him, then most certainly not for her._ Angling her neck back, he forced her jaw to open and reached for the bowl at his side. Trying to get her to taste the drops of blood.  _But it was different than the Awakening. She was in danger of choking, globs of blood collecting on her tongue with nowhere to go._ The amount of grey in her skin making him wonder if it had been altogether  _wise_  to instruct Rena to just let her keep lying there…

_…but it was too late now._

No choice but to keep working on her throat, holding the head back until help came. Until he heard footsteps.  _Too heavy for Singe. It was Rena._ Wary of time, he growled for her to know his location, his thumbs still pressed against the neck of their mutual failure. He'd been over the body for almost twelve minutes now, half the time spent trying to drip blood down her throat and the other half trying to get her to swallow.  _Barely a heartbeat_. He knew Singe was on his way, but he needed options.  _Quick options._

In moments, Rena came sprinting through the tunnel, her hair illuminated briefly by the sun-trap over her head. Her eyes gleaming in the light. She came to kneel beside him, holding a small porcelain bowl as pristine and out of place as sugar at a lycan gathering.  _It was a marrow bowl from the upstairs kitchen, the edges chipped after years of service. The surface warmed by the hand of Mrs. Fulligan._

As soon as she was near, he let go of Reinette's throat, in the same movement, taking the porcelain bowl from Rena's hand, removing its cover and placing it carefully on the ground beside him. She had followed his instructions.  _Three tablespoons mixed with a quarter cup of blood. Boiled and then left to cool for three minutes._ Rena took a step back, watching blankly as he rolled up Reinette's sleeve, simultaneously drawing a knife from his right boot. Eyes watching the skin, searching and forcing himself to remember.  _He had done this before. Many centuries ago. Centuries when he actually cared about keeping vampires alive instead of just killing them._

A moment in thought…and then he darted the knife into the skin, six times along the vein, each cut the size of a fingernail, each cut located precisely along the arm. The knife dipped into the bowl, doused in marrow and then pressed into each cut.  _Vampires could stomach marrow, but too much of it and their systems reacted. The blood working over time to compensate…all he needed was a reaction…something to break the cycle. Something to wake her before she slipped._

 _Wake,_ he thought.

_Wake._

_o…o…o_

_But she did not wake._

Unbeknownst to those around her, Reinette dreamed, not of her past, but of her present. In the bowels of the earth, she saw herself, at times sleeping, at times awake. She could not remember how or when she lost her way, only that she had panicked at the rising sun. Every stone growing hotter until she found another hole, another trap that led her further into the maze. Her dreams of escape falling apart, torn like the yarn on her wrist, replaced instead by the reality of her surroundings.

Hunger gnawing at the edge of her throat, telling her she had not moved for hours…days even…that to sink into the ground and starve was the only way she could resist her captor. Bitterness. Despair. The realisation that she did not know the way back, that every turn looked the same, that he had lied. That there was no exit, and he had left her here only to crawl in circles. She dreamed of shivers in the dark.  _The voices of her mother and sisters following her in her sleep…the cries of a small brother whose face was like hers, his footsteps following her across the ice only to fall beneath it._

Of all these things, she dreamed…

…and then without warning, she felt herself growing cold. Black overwhelming the dream, so that sight took its place. To drink of lycan blood was to see the prospects of a future…all knew such things. But to starve, to reach that cusp between life and death, was to see one's own future. The cruel irony of the bloodseers' fate that only on the brink of death could they see their own path…not through the distorted words of a muse, but through vision.

_So beyond dream, with her breath fading, she saw not the past, nor the present, but the future…_

_o…o…o_

She heard a crack...

…and in the same moment, became aware of herself. Unsure how she had come to this place that was neither the catacombs…nor the den. Wondering how she could have come to be outside.  _Wondering if she was dead…and this was the reward promised by her ancestors._

In the vision, she stumbled to her feet and then froze, staring at the outstretched arm that was hers. Tears threatening to fall as she turned her palm away from her, staring at the back of her hand.  _Youth_ , she realised. She held her hands up, her fingers long and slender, her cheeks smooth when she touched them.  _Youth._ She breathed out, feeling the cold breath coming from her lips. Even laughter for she could not stop the wave of joy threatening to overwhelm her.

 _It felt so real._ She could feel the cold of the North, she could see the stars in the sky. Unable to hold back her joy, she hugged herself, rubbing her arms briskly, feeling the strength beneath her winter coat of fur, feeling the tautness of her neck.  _She was young again…and if this was a vision of her future, then it meant she would triumph. Somehow, years from now, she would triumph over her captors_. She would be young again, free of the catacombs and away from his den.

Her eyes now keen to take in her surroundings. The small clearing that was her refuge, the open sky above and the inch of snow beneath her feet. Her camp pressed against a snow-covered rock and her belongings laid out below. Every detail removing the haze and drawing her further into the vision.  _The dream. The future. Whatever this place was, she felt at home._

Leather packs resting against a fallen log. Knives laid out beside a stone, ready to be sharpened. Every sector of the camp was organised, from the skins drying beside the fire to the sacs labelled for their contents.  _The words appearing blurry._ It was as though she could see only that which she focused on. The picture starting to grow darker the more she looked upon it. In the centre of the camp, she saw a wooden bowl lying on its side, growing black from the heat of an iron-skillet. The campfire eating the remains of a meal spilled only moments ago. And most disturbing of all, she saw a hare lying with its throat cut, its eyes staring at her through the glaze. Its fur torn as though claws had ripped through its heart.

She felt adrenaline. A heightened sense of awareness. Like a hawk veering after prey. The dream becoming more real.  _She started to find herself in the vision._ The words of her Mentor telling her to be cautious. Urging her to remember what became of the blood-seers. The ones who dream of their own death. The feeling accompanied by a dreadful knowledge.

_This was a death vision…_

_Her reaction too late._  Her hand only now reaching for the closest knife. Throwing aside the leather sheathe, finding herself drawn to the blade like a compass pointing north. A wondrous blade crafted from steel with a hilt of ivory. It showed an osprey in flight, the bird surrounded by a wealth of intricate detail.  _Even now, she wanted to study it. So eager to witness every detail before her._ The hilt fitting perfectly in her palm, her thumb coming to rest upon the osprey as though it had been crafted for her fingers.  _Beautiful_ , she thought…

But too late.

 _It felt like a rock thrown at her back._ She stumbled, using the mountain-side to break her fall.  _The tip of the arrow protruding from her chest, causing her lungs to seize._ Breath slowing, limbs tensing in shock as she sought cover _. Veering away from the light, turning back from the fire._ A second and third jolt striking her from the right and the left. The sensation of blood seeping from her throat as an icy hand grasped her head, jerking a knife across her neck.  _Veins taken care of in a blink of an eye, and the air fading away with every second._

Only then did they leave her.

_Shadows._

_Whispers on the wind, circling like vultures after prey._ Drowning in blood, stabbing wildly through the air. Losing her balance, feeling the snow bite into her knees. The world threatening to fade before the vision could gift her with foresight.  _Please,_ she thought.  _Let me see them._ If she could but see the faces of her attackers, it could be the difference between life and death. Fate and the light of the moon gifting her with a final vision before the end. Not a whisper, but a soundless blaze of fury. Firelight glinting off silver, her lungs draining for she knew his face.  _Ruthless…the slaughter of thousands at his hand. The desecration of the smaller covens. The killing of men, women, and children. Mortals and vampires alike._

_Lucian._

His presence confusing her…filling her veins with hatred. Rage that he would murder her after all that had passed. Wanting to hurt him for what he had done, the last of her energy spent on hurling her blade across the fire at him _._ His stride refusing to break, the man…the savage…pelting forward with the ferocity of a wolf, catching the hilt…

…and shoving not her but the shadow behind her against the rock side, plunging the blade deep into its eye. Twisting with the momentum, the edge of the blade slicing a second shadow across the neck before he dropped to his knees. His hands finding purchase from below, breaking the spine of one and stabbing the blade upwards into the throat of the last.  _Seconds,_ she thought dimly, feeling the dream, the wayward thoughts of this vision settle upon her brow.  _It had taken him only seconds._

 _All of them…dying…like flowers at the turn of winter. Tongues turning black, their mouths twitching as they gurgled on the poison of her knife._ The last of her attackers brought low…and for her mistakes, a pool of red seeping through the snow beneath her. He staggered to his feet, letting the knife fall useless into the bleeding snow. A hopeless growl of frustration and anger suddenly tearing from his throat.  _It meant little in her final moments._

Her thoughts struggling to find solace in the end.  _A thousand years to her existence, and now only minutes left. The fates callous and cruel, to let her to die in captivity._ Not alone, but travelling with her warden…her captor. Death the only escape from the invisible leash still tied around her neck.

"Reinette…"

He had fallen to his knees, his hands cold on her neck, stemming the blood-loss. The glow turning to shadow. The silver retreating into grey, but the irises still showing fear. Anger, a terrible rage, for what their attackers had done, but above all things, fear. A horrifying truth rising in her gut.

_He was afraid for her._

_In all her years, she'd never seen him so afraid._ Shock keeping her upright until he moved, laying her back slowly, the sky reeling above her head. She tried to say something, but her throat was _…pierced._ The guttural sound of a creature grasping for air. _It was through her throat. The arrow was through her throat. Never in all her years…_

He was moving quickly, his hands tearing into cloth, reaching for the one knife unsullied by blood. _He had been close to skinning a hare with it…only ten minutes ago._   _She remembered it now, the presence of her death forcing her to fall deeper into the vision._  In the corner of her eyes, she saw the metal start to glow against the dying coals. Her instinct rising. Her mind unable to keep track of what was real.  _She remembered the feel of burning hot metal against her skin. She remembered him burning her skin_.

She began to struggle, her arms weak, but scrabbling in the snow. Like a bird flown from its cage, he caught her before she could move, his one arm restraining her head. Keeping her still…her breath drawing faster as the adrenaline kicked in.  _The throat. There was an arrow in her throat…she was…losing blood._

_Too much blood._

"' _Nette_ …" There was a tight urgency in his voice. He gripped her close, pressing the cloth against her neck. Giving up on a knife that would be useless if she struggled. Instead reaching out to push the strands of hair from her face. "…look at me." His eyes only a foot from hers, as though she had been swallowed in a grey mist. "I will be quick…I promise I will be quick, but you must be still."

_No._

_This was a nightmare._

_She had fled from his den. She had escaped from his world. How could he possibly be here?_ She tried to scream. Tried to put distance between them, tried to get away from his face. The little strength she had intent on tearing the arrow from her throat, tearing away from this nightmare.  _She needed to wake from her nightmare. She needed to.._.

"Look at me…"

He caught her wrists, gently cradling her as though she were not fighting him with every breath. "…you are safe," he said. Like hearing a song she had forgotten, his voice soothing her, soft as rainfall in the midst of winter. "You are safe," he said again. Stroking the crown of her head as though time had stilled. Pleading with her to listen, his words spoken over and over until she could hear what he was saying.  _Look at me, 'Nette, you are safe,_  he said. The name making her want to scream…but his voice drawing her back into quiet again.  _Safe,_  he said. Over and over.

 _She was safe in this hollow. Safe in this world where a lycan held her life in his hands._ Her breath starting to slow. Darkness looming above their heads, yet the world seeming to cradle them both in light. The snow reflecting off the moon; so that soon, she felt her arms go slack, the fight flowing out of them like warmth from a winter's hearth.

Memories rising within the vision. Memories of a past that had not happened yet.  _He called her 'Nette when they were alone. His hands on her back, curving around her spine, her breasts, the tautness of muscle._  She tried to speak.  _The vision was wrong._ _It had to be wrong._  She was a vampire, a bloodseer raised by the oldest of bloodseers. She would never have allowed herself to be sullied in such a manner…how could she have…

But in the vision, she had no voice.

All she could do was watch and listen. Watch as he darted forward, reaching for the knife and seeing to her wounds, taking shock for what it was…and obedience as a sign of trust. Listening to the calm he spoke into her ear, soothing her with words while he dealt with the first arrow, the blade cutting just above her throat.  _Her throat unable to heal, unable to close around the wound_. Even to pull out the arrow was dangerous. _He risked tearing out the veins. Death within seconds_.

She heard a crack, like the sound of an ice tree breaking in winter. His hand flinging the stub away, binding the neck quickly with a rag torn from his shirt, the arrow held in its place. The second and third broken at the tip and bound in the same manner, the wounds less pressing, but still presenting danger.  _More so because of time._

_Time for the sun to come up. Time for covering their tracks and moving to a new location before they were hunted a second time. Time for finding a place where she could heal, somewhere hidden from daylight._

Her eyes tracking his shadow in the dark, watching as he gathered the essentials. His movements mechanical, the mark of one who needed structure in order to fight despair. Leaving most of their camp behind, he shouldered both their packs and gently pulled her up, balancing her with an arm, keeping the arrow stubs a safe distance from his chest.  _The vision obscured by black as her body gave in to the wound. To hunger. The sound of voices nearby. The sense of being dragged and then lifted into the air…_

_o…o…o_

And then she woke.

 _Firelight reflecting off the rock ceiling. Warmth seeping into her bones._ She squinted, trying to understand where she was. Her body lying on the floor. A blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her wrists bandaged with cloth. She had been wounded. She had been…

_…attacked._

Roughly, she pushed the blanket away, pulling the neck of her shirt down, the smell of blood causing her to struggle, searching for the wound in her throat; her fingers finding only…skin.  _Her throat healed, the arrows gone. She had survived the attack._

_Somehow she survived._

She moved to get up…and then stilled, touching her throat again.  _Confused_.  _Of course, she was not young again. She had been dreaming._  Her cheeks sunken, her neck wrinkled, like parched leather. _But how could… How could she have…_  She was grasping at straws, her breath starting to run ragged as she remembered the dream. _In her mind's eye, she had been young. Strong. A capable fighter. Not only young, but a creature of…fallen morals. Even the possibility of abomination making her shudder._ Her thoughts holding such weight, such fear for that future that she failed to grasp the obvious.  _Firelight. Warmth. The faint smell of…_

_…laudanum._

She felt her throat constrict.

He was here.  _Now_. Reclining on the other side of the fire with his shirt-collar loosened. Flipping through her journal and looking suitably unimpressed by the long stains of red spattered across his shirt. Despite this, he had left his waist-coat on. His tail-coat set aside, as though folding it still mattered. Irises that had been so fearful in the dream and now only displayed the boredom of an emperor stripped of his lavish surroundings.

_Stripped._

_Only a fleeting memory of a dream within a dream. His hands on her back, curving around her…_  Flinching at the thought, she clapped a hand to her mouth.  _It would not happen. It could not happen_.  _She would never submit to such…foul immorality_ , she decided. _Lycans were dogs. Their habits were unclean._

A furious blush rising to her cheeks.  _Even her mantra was failing to give her peace._ Her eyes darting towards him and then quickly away as she willed herself to forget such nonsense. Reminding herself that  _she_  was in control of her future…that she, not the vision, would dictate what happened from this moment on.  _It was a warning._

_Just a warning._

As always, keen to witness the fruit of other people's misery, he had closed the book and was now staring at her with a remarkably suspicious look on his face. _The same look that Singe sometimes gave her when she professed to be studying and was actually considering whether lycans were proportional…everywhere._ He seemed to sense that she was thinking something that she ought  _not_  to be thinking; and yet for reasons no doubt beyond his ego, he could not imagine what. The staring match going on for several seconds before he spoke, tapping the book against his chin. "You know, this might be an ill-timed question in light of your recent brush with death, but…" His voice was flat. "…are you… _quite_ …alright, 'Nette…"

She gasped…and then furiously got to her knees, backing away from the fire.  _It did not seem to matter that her wrists were bandaged, that she had been on the brink of death, that she had lost every ounce of energy._  Every hair on her neck rising to the ceiling as panic set in. " _Why_ would you call me that?" Her voice sounded strangled.

"Because it's your  _name_?" he offered.  _If not for the sarcasm, it might have come across as helpful_. And by his eyebrow, he had just assessed her question as being grounds for placing her in a lunatic asylum.

"But you…" It felt like her eyes were enormous.  _Even to her own ears, she sounded mad._  She licked her lips, trying to seem normal…trying to unravel her thoughts. And then she sniffed, pointing at him with the accusation. "…you shortened it."

"So?"

" _Don't_  shorten it."

He exhaled, looking pensively at the ceiling. "You realise by telling me  _not_  to shorten it, my first instinct is now to…

"Stop it," she hissed, looking around them, feeling as though every word was being heard by…someone…and then crawling forward to snatch the blanket, pulling it back with her to the tunnel. Starting to shiver as she left the fire, but determined to put space between them. Her back against the mouth of the tunnel and her arms wrapped around her knees, trying to rid herself of that…feeling. Like she had been caught doing something wrong.

_And now he really thought she was mad._

He had the most estranged expression on his face. After a while, he rubbed his forehead and then got to his feet, putting his hands in his pockets and scuffing some of the rat faeces with his boot.  _The environment saying much for what he thought was the cause of her state of mind._  "Reinette, it has only been  _one_ week since I left you down here…"

"I did not  _ask_  for you to come and check on me," she muttered under her breath.

"Well as it so happens, my interests are your interests," he replied tightly. "…and it  _affects_  me…" He indicated the blood on his shirt with a wave of his hand. "…when you decide to go three days without  _eating_."

She kept her mouth shut. S _aying something was liable to make things worse. The vision only a chance possibility, but…still making her paranoid. Memories of herself lying on a snow-covered plain with an arrow in her throat. A fallen woman_.  _A mistress of a dog._  The words sounding horrible in her mind, cruel and prejudiced, but her fears proving too strong.  _Abomination. Even her mentor had spoken of the evils of abomination._

He was getting frustrated. "Do you have  _anything_  to say for yourself?"

She met his eye and then started picking at the gauze on her wrists, saying nothing. Firmly ignoring everything beyond the tunnel _._ Occasionally looking up and meeting his eyes, but on the whole, simply waiting for him to go away _._

He made a grunting sound and then stalked off. His back to her now, his paces taking him the length of the cell. From afar, she saw him thumb the side of his neck, turning several times in his path as though he were thinking. The light glancing off a face that could not decide whether to help her or smother her with a brick.  _He was about to lecture her…tell her off for stupidity_.

Stubbornly, she kept her eyes forward. Her hands firmly around her knees, her thoughts so consumed with ignoring everything that she did not recognise movement until it was too late… a familiar set of fingers darting into the hole, taking a wrenching grip on her upper arm so before she knew it, he had dragged her, kicking and screaming, out of the mouth of the tunnel. Pulling her across the floor and depositing her in front of the fire again, the blanket thrown in her face, and the bowl of blood slopped down on the ground in front of her.

She snarled, kicking the cloth away _._  "You… _half-breed_ …piece of…"

_It was not over._

There was a four-inch long scratch across his face. Rather than deal with the wound, he pulled her bathing bucket to his side and took hold of her wrist, forcing her hand into the icy water and dousing it until his blood was off her nails. Again, she tried to scratch him, but he caught her other wrist, twisting it behind her back. "Are you done?"

The angle making her cringe, making her want to cower before him.  _It hurt_. She could feel tears leaking out of her eye…but she was  _not_  yielding…her blood boiling over as she spat the word. " _Slave_."

"You're  _right_ ," he said derisively, shoving her forward. "I was a slave…and thanks to your little escapade, I now have  _all_  evening to listen to your shit…" He returned to his seat, the flames lighting up his scowl. The cut healing, but the blood remaining. "…and don't even  _think_  about going into those tunnels until you are fucking ready for them." There was no pity in his eyes. "Now explain yourself."

Shivering, she raised herself into a crouch, folding her fingers beneath her armpits, trying to warm the veins. Her left arm causing her to wince in pain.  _It felt like he had wrenched it out of its socket._  "I got lost," she said.

"You got ' _lost'_ ….'" His expression was vicious, giving her the sense that he wanted to do brutal things with that word. That if he could, he  _would_  have carved out her brain  _just_  so she could understand the concept of losing something. "…you had  _three_  days to call out to Rena and for some inexplicable reason, your location hindered you from using your voice…"

"I  _forgot_  she was there…"

"Oh yes, that's  _very_  comforting," he said. "Now I  _know_  you can make it through the rest of the year."

She jerked her head up. "Just because you are having second thoughts on this deal, Lyosha…"

"It's not a 'second thought,' Reinette…" He was starting to yell. "…it's more like a blinding epiphany into how  _shit_  you are at taking care of yourself."

"I was doing fine," she hissed.

"You almost  _died_."

"As if  _you_  care."

It seemed to be a back-breaking straw. " _Of course_  I fucking care," he bellowed at her. "…am I supposed to throw a  _rotting_  carcass in front of my council?"

"I'm  _sure_  it would not be the first time," she snapped.

Her words earning a growl to the ceiling. The man retracting his nails and then taking a very  _firm_  hold of himself. Licking his lip and then scratching his throat, his nails drawing marks on the skin. He looked away, his eyes very specifically holding their grey, and then indicated the bowl.

"Drink it."

"No."

" _Oh_  my word…" He pressed his palms to his skull. Talking to himself. "…there is something wrong with you." Scrubbing his face, clearly trying to understand some mystery that could not be solved by logic. "Tanis was  _not_  lying to me. You are touched in the head."

 _Good_ , she thought.  _The less he thought of her, the better_. She was starving, but she would be damned before drinking from that bowl. She turned over, curling up with the blanket gripped tight.  _Small comfort on what had turned out to be a horrible evening._

He was still talking behind her.  _The sound of someone who had reached the end of his rope._  "Reinette, can you just… _admit_ …you should come upstairs?"

She said nothing.

"You're right." His voice was flippant like he had decided that if she was not going to talk, then he might as well have a conversation with the ceiling. "I was drugged out of my mind when we made this wager. I had taken  _eight_  times the recommended dosage, woman… _eight_  times. Do you know what that can do to a man?"

The fire crackled.

"Did you know it's  _Christmas?_ " He sounded resigned. "This is my life. Christmas in a hole with a deranged person…I can't imagine why I'd have issues with that."

She bit her tongue, wondering if he had ever considered that perhaps she was suffering from the exact same issue…and then closing her eyes briefly, knowing it was a mistake, she turned over, speaking through her teeth. "Do you  _always_  talk this much?"

"Actually, no." He looked at a loss now, his head resting on both arms. The blood on his face belying the expression. "I tend to be quite succinct." And then he turned over onto his front, crossing his arms, not seeming to care that the blood on his shirt was now matched by the grime. "Are you coming upstairs now?"

"No."

She still did not trust him.  _For all she knew, this was all part of his…trick. His means for winning the wager._

"Even if I was sloshed at the time?" He was almost looking apologetic.  _Not quite, but almost._

"Even then," she replied _. In all honesty, she had no idea what 'sloshed' meant. It didn't sound like a Latin word. But she was not about to ask. Not when she was not speaking to him._

He exhaled. Flicked some of the dried blood off his shirt, and then rolled onto his feet, stretching his back out like he'd just woken from a nap. "Alright," he said. "I'll leave the fire." His hand reaching down to pick up her journal. Crouching on the floor, he flipped open the pages, skipping all her writing and found a blank spread. Finding a pen in his pocket, he uncapped it with his mouth and began to sketch something.

She squinted, suddenly confused…  _What was he doing?_

With a rather scrunched-up look of concentration, he considered his drawing, muttered something in what must have been English and then shook his head. The pen going back into his pocket. He looked over at her. "You can climb an eight-foot  _wall_ , right?"

The question caught her off-guard. "I…" She had no idea if she could climb one or not, but he seemed to have some reason in mind. "…I suppose."

He nodded in approval. Coming over to crouch by her blanket, flipping the book onto the floor and pointing at the small map he had drawn. "Do you see that circle?"

She stared at the drawing.

_Lines…a few crossed-out squares. Only the one circle. A small legend on the right side filled with tiny handwriting. Again, it was a style of penmanship she had not seen…as though he changed his letters as much as he changed his clothing._

"A safe-room. The ceilings are intact, so it gives you a safe spot to sleep during the day." Without waiting for her reply, he ran a finger down one of the lines he had drawn…a set of ungainly twists and turns on the paper. "This path will get you there, but you need…" The pen was out of his pocket again, the cap in his mouth. "…to climb  _here_ …" He added a pair of crosses on the line. "…and  _here_." He capped the pen again and tossed both book and pen onto her blanket. "About eight feet on the second one."

Her mouth was trying to work.

"Wait… _what?_ " She was on her feet. He was already getting his things, unfolding his tail-coat and shaking it out. "What do you mean a safe-room?"

He dusted the tail-coat off…blood and all. "I mean 'the ceilings are intact and it gives you a safe spot to sleep during the day.'" He turned. "Did I not just say that?"

"But…"

"You'll also find a small supply of charcoal in the room–always good for marking a path." His face flinched in disgust for a split-second. "You  _could_  also used charred bone if you want, but…" There was a pause. "…some people find that morbid."

She seemed to have forgotten how to think. "Why are you…" She was trying to shape the words. "…why would you…"

"Because it gives you a reason to survive," he said, reaching the open door of her prison. His hand lingering at door…and then he smiled, turning away, the light only just catching the silver as he passed. "And because it's Christmas…so  _take_  the gift and find your way back next time…"

And with that, he was gone.

The door shut.


	45. A Penny for a Thought

**Chapter XLV: A Penny for a Thought**

_Three weeks later._

_January 14, 1900. The Study_.

 _The new year had come and gone._ It was a quarter to nine in the morning, and Lucian was standing in the shade by the east window of his study, his back to the room and an unlit pipe stuck between his teeth. He'd given up smoking over a decade ago, but the steady decline of his laudanum stash was leading him to look to other means for keeping his mental state in check.  _The principle scourge of an addict being that, more often than not, the addiction had very little to do with the actual substance_.

"Good news or bad?" His attention was focused on one of two horses making its way across a pasture.  _Sabine_. Her morning riding lesson, something he had promised to attend at least once, and as yet had not found the time. Probably for the best. Two weeks into the new year and his moods were, at best, erratic: roughly two days of good humour for every one spent snapping at anything that crossed his path.

"If pushed, I would say 'bad,' sir." Weylan, his secondary advisor—after Raze—on all things related to the outside world, was young, but entirely suited to his post.  _Anyone capable of distilling two hundred hours of minutes into four sentences was always worthy of his time._  "The full contingent will be present at the Gathering, however, there is some debate as to the safety of the location. According to one report, there have been Blood sightings in the proposed opera district. Gustav has called for confidence in the state of Berlin, and in the interim, Lady Allegra has put forward a motion for Vienna as a more suitable location. Most are still waiting on your opinion before they proceed with the vote."

He spoke around the pipe. "Anything but Wagner."

"Wagner, sir?"

" _Ja_ ," he said, switching to German without a second thought. The horses were moving faster. She was riding side-saddle. Ridiculous, but necessary if they were to conform to the image the public required of Mr. Alexander Kerr's estate. "I have…  _issues_ … with Wagner."

"Shall I put that in writing, sir?"

"Why not." He stepped away from the window as the clouds moved. The sun was getting in his eyes. "Tell them—in writing—they've wasted a week by choosing not to vote, and that I am now of the opinion that they can hold it under the lead soprano's arse for all I care." He removed the pipe, taking a closer look at some of the teeth marks, before chucking it onto his desk. "I just don't want to be hearing Wagner as she sits down."

"Very good, sir." Weylan had switched to German accordingly and was now thumbing through the small black box, dedicated to all things local. "Colonel Arlington has submitted a request to widen the scope of his inquiry—he believes the tools used on the victim's eye may be located farther afield than first posited."

"And what's he basing this on?"

"It would seem a lack of options, sir." Though Weylan was not officially involved with the murder inquiry, it was his duty to be aware of any and all things related to the lycan-master's connections with the outside world. "Though the murders have stopped for the time being, the investigation appears to have come to a stand-still. All leads in the distillery district have gone cold, and they still require access to some of the more secretive of perfume houses. "

"Approved." He waved a hand. "Next."

Weylan moved onto the next page in his hand, speaking as he transferred Arlington's request to the approved section of the files.  _They would be signed later._ "There has been some pressure from the investors to release Stafford, McIlroy, and Douglas. No official petitions as of yet, merely letters…"

"Letters can be ignored."

"Shall I inform you the moment they file a petition, sir?"

"Yes." He pointed at Weylan. "Wake me if you have to."

"Of course, sir." This was all old news for Weylan. He had been trained to do this since birth or age twenty as far as mature lycans were concerned.  _To observe protocol, to imagine what was required of him even before the lycan-master could think of it._  "Finally, a report from Singe regarding his experiments in scent-isolation… "

Lucian snapped his fingers. "Summarise."

"The eye was very clean before the scents were applied, and as such, the experiment was inconclusive."

"Fuck."

"Indeed, sir." Never fazed, Weylan closed the black box and removed a short stack of pages from his personal itinerary, handing them over. "Shall I make a note of your displeasure or would you prefer to move onto something more positive?"

"Positive." He wanted to kick something.  _The trail had gone completely cold._  Having the sense that he was stalking something, he headed for his seat. _At least the black box was empty now. Supposedly that was positive._ "Remind me what that word means again?"

"The opposite of lycan, sir." Weylan did have some humour to him. "Moving to Article three, reference number eighty-seven…" He waited until they both had resumed their seats. "…using the Lady Allegra's notation, I have started a file for the lady in question, however, it will require some key pieces of information before her registry status can move forward. Official papers will take a minimum of two months to process."

 _Right_.

He was already skimming the second page of Reinette's official 'Petition for Lenience', as it was called.  _All exiled vampires required one…even Kolya. They had processed his papers in France, but Reinette was a more difficult case. The rest of the documents pertained to residency and entitlement. All very official. All very necessary, if she was going to stand in front of his council in four months._

He flipped from the second page back to the first. The bare trimmings of her past. Allegra had filled out as much as she could, which was to say, even less than he knew. According to the pages, she only spoke Latin, Norwegian, Russian, and remedial French. "Her travel arrangements are secure?"

"She will be boxed as last time, but with an increase in comfort." Weylan had been the reason Reinette's travels had been so orchestrated last time. The unsung hero that helped her get into England without her realising or even appreciating it. "If her papers have cleared, she will have access to forged Blood documents and a false passport naming her as a citizen of the Russian empire. Enough to get her out of trouble if she is misplaced before the actual event."

 _Misplaced…it was quite possible. Unlikely with a lycan guard, but possible._ Lucian picked up his pipe again, considering whether to open the drawer and just  _hold_  the tobacco. But then he could just as soon as open the drawer and use the one laudanum bottle he had yet to give to Singe.  _It would be simple. Easy._

"Sir, it would…" Weylan was being delicate. "… _help_  if I could actually meet the lady in question. Does she fully understand what is at stake here?"

He looked up, surveying Weylan for a moment.  _Enlisted from an early age. Polite. Capable of keeping state secrets. More to the point, Allegra had called him 'pretty' once…and blood knew, Reinette liked a pretty face. Might unsettle her enough to start talking if he brought one with him…_ "What's your schedule like around seven?"

"It can be empty, sir."

"And how's your Russian?"

"Excellent, sir."

 _Excellent?_  He squinted at the other man.  _Was it excellent? Perhaps, but that was his word. Despite that, Reinette would probably appreciate…_ He felt his teeth grind into the pipe. … _the 'excellence.' And Weylan would probably appreciate meeting the case study he'd spent untold hours on._

His thoughts trying to adjust to the small hairs rising on his upper arm. The slight tension in his back as he tried to categorise why he now felt like telling Weylan to go take his Russian and speak it somewhere silent.  _Why a tiny part of his brain wanted to break a seventeenth century oak chair across Weylan's face._

_Or perhaps just shove him._

Starting to suspect, but not entirely believing what was going on, he put his pipe down for the umpteenth time and opened the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, rummaging around for his last stash of laudanum, currently housed in an ink-well. _It was becoming obvious that he needed it…surely Singe could see that. Territorial thoughts. Resentment. Paranoia. Ten minutes from now, someone would say 'hello' and he'd spend the afternoon wondering what the devil they meant by that._ "Weylan, you'll have to forgive me…but we'll need to continue this later."

"Of course, sir." The man had already brought out a small book for his final notations. Such things were usually written in 'house-code' as it was called and then burned after carrying them out. To the average reader, it might appear as a list of chores or a cleaning schedule. "Any instructions before I leave?"

"Just two…" The laudanum was  _not_  there. He was patting his pockets, hoping he had left it in his jacket.  _No laudanum._  "I need you to go to Rena…" He closed the drawer and moved onto the lower one. "…she'll be in the kitchens at noon for a brief period—inform her that her charge will be having visitors this evening and please  _stress_  the plural."  _From what he'd heard, Reinette_   _had neither washed nor expressed a desire to wash since Christmas. It was questionable if they could even get her out of the tunnels, given how attached she had become to dirt._  "We'll be meeting at ten past seven."

"Noted, sir."

"As to the second…" He frowned, thinking as he eyed the contents of the last drawer.  _The laudanum and tobacco were missing. Someone had even taken his matches_. "…swing by Singe's quarters…" Reaching to his left, he ripped a section from his newspaper, scrawled the words ' _No Lessons_ ' across the back, and handed it to Weylan. "Give him that, and tell him if he ever goes through my desk again without permission, I will… _not_ …break anything in his laboratory. I will just sit there,  _watching_  him work, while holding some matches and a small bottle of highly flammable ethanol. Ask him if he's comfortable with that."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He placed his palms on either side of the desk and smiled warmly before standing. "Until this evening." Reaching across the table, he very briefly shook Weylan's hand.  _Still an uncomfortable sensation, but the least he could do for a lycan that had served him_ _so diligently_ _._  "Keep to the shadows."

"Survive the war, sir." Weylan backed away to the door, making a short bow before shutting it.

_Brilliant._

Left behind, Lucian collapsed in his seat. _He was now exhibiting the classic signs of a territorial wolf, except his territory seemed to reside in the form of a ninety-pound, seventy-year-old woman, whose opinion of him ranged somewhere between "slave" and "you half-breed piece of…blank."_ Insults which felt more like pins than daggers once compared to the bigger problem of how they expected him to live like this for the entire winter _._

 _No laudanum. No sleep. No mistresses. In the words of Allegra, it was incomprehensible. Another fourteen hours before his next drop of a dose and considering he had just threatened his physician, he was unlikely to get any extra doled out to him any time soon._  He was doing half-days now…stints from dusk until midnight, waking again at four in the morning and working until noon. Normally, Raze would be on this shift…but Raze was on holiday in Yorkshire with his wife.  _Because that's what people did with their wives after they just married them. Apparently it was normal these days. You marry someone, you take them to the Isle of Wight. Or Bath. Or fucking Yorkshire._

His eyes lingered on the bottom drawer, its contents scattered in his search. Stacks of papers, envelopes, and wax. A few personal items. An extra shirt, some cuff-links, a variety of grooming implements. He couldn't see it from this angle, but he knew the knife was in there.  _Steel with an ivory handle_.  _He should never have subscribed to that tradition. Like showing his weaknesses._ With more force than he planned, he kicked the drawer shut and stood, looking out the window instead.  _Definitely a morning for dark thoughts._

o…o…o

_Several floors below._

_Winter had come._ Reinette was fast asleep in the catacombs, her body wedged between two icy rocks and her head folded into a blanket. Her hair was matted, but for all intensive purposes, she was at her best. She was alive, she was eating…and three weeks ago, she had found the safe-room. Her eyes almost fooled by a dead-end until she realised there was a hidden shaft, perpendicular to the wall.  _Only two feet wide_. The hole leading eight feet up into the ceiling; the ceiling leading into a cob-webbed tunnel that ended in the tiny room she had been sleeping in for the past three weeks.  _Her own personal attic made of stone._

As ever, she clutched the journal as she slept. The small supply of charcoal in one corner. The refuse pile in another, its content comprising of whatever bits of rubbish she found in her nightly excursions. Things that might be useful in future.  _Sharp sticks, charred bones, pieces of parchment, ribbons, trinkets covered in dust_ … _even a small pile of photographs, their content giving her cause to first blush_ _…_ _and then squint, turning her head, considering the angles._ She could not remember being privy to such things…and yet in a millennium, she must have familiarised herself with…a husband…a lover.  _Someone._ In the end, she had put the photographs down.

When not dwelling on the past, she made notes of her present.  _Thanks to Christmas, she knew what day it was now, so she kept a calendar in the book, marking the dates_ _;_ _seeing the new century come and go with only an underlining notch to indicate the occasion._

The rest of her time she spent in the labyrinth. Every day venturing out a little more, taking the journal with her and mapping her progress with the pen Lucian had left her. Painstaking, but of value once she understood where she could go and potentially what could be hidden there.  _Like stumbling through the belly of a whale, her path lined with the bones of forgotten creatures, the ones that would never rise from the deep._

The thought proving itself too real for she woke to the sound of climbing. Pebbles shifting and scuffing, like an animal scraping its claws against rock. Alarmed, she folded herself deeper into the hole. Her level of fear increasing, rising into a panic until she saw her visitor crawl into the room.

_Rena._

The eyes she sometimes saw in the ceiling above her…yellow and reflecting in the dark. A sight that no longer frightened her; for in many ways, Rena was her only companion in this place. She wanted to say something. Say anything, for she had not opened her mouth in three weeks, but it was Rena who spoke first…

 _…_ _in French._

"Lyosha is bringing someone to speak with you at seven this evening." She paused. "There will be no lesson with Singe." Like a clock that had been wound, she said her piece and then turned to leave.

 _She had not spoken French in three weeks._ Barely able to keep up, Reinette found herself trying to sit forward, awkwardly pushing herself from between the rocks. The blanket fell, rewarding her with an icy draft, but she was more interested in asking her question than warmth. "He is…" She rephrased, trying to remember her grammar. "…who is he bringing?"

"I could not say…" With only her back visible, the woman touched the opposite wall, running a gloved finger down one of the scratches. Her expression blank, her words very quiet, seeming to come from somewhere beyond, as though a clock had struck thirteen. "…you have not washed in three weeks. Is it because the water is cold?"

"It…"

She had been about to say something sarcastic, but she broke off. _The question was an understatement. The water was frozen to ice every evening. But Rena did not work in the way that others did; Rena followed instructions. Precise instructions, which made her suspect that for the past three weeks_ _…_

__…_ it had been Lucian that had wanted her to bathe in ice._

_Not Rena.  
_

Moderating her tone, she took the blanket up again, unwilling to hope for any more warmth than that. "…yes. The water is cold," she finally said.

There was no telling what the woman was thinking. The words coming across as quite unthinkable when she finally spoke them. "The water will be hot this evening," she said. And then she turned _._ "Give me your clothes and I will bring them back before seven. They will be clean."

 _Clean_.

She could hug Rena at this moment.  _It did not matter if they would become filthy within the hour._  Her arms freezing, but her spirits warmer as she began to strip. "Thank you," she said quietly. The woman nodded in reply, leaving her behind to think in the cold, to hold the blanket close, and wonder who might be coming to visit her in the dark.


	46. An Evening of Stubborn Ends

**Chapter XLVI: An Evening of Stubborn Ends**

_January 14, 1900. Six hours later._

In the oldest part of the London den, Weylan was waiting outside a large wooden door with two folios in hand and a small, portable writing-surface under his arm.  _Papers and quills._ These were the weapons of the new world, not the revolver hidden under his jacket nor the silver nitrate he kept on his person. His eye happening on his own reflection. His face dancing in the light of twelve shields that hung on the wall in remembrance of those who were buried below. Although not a vain man, he did have an eye for precision.  _His hair combed just so. His exterior appearance exuding the charm and delicacy that was often necessary for dealing with Bloods. His quick intellect providing the trust that was necessary when serving his master in the matter of this…woman._

Four months ago, he had spent three solid days at the Lycan Registry, gathering papers, sending telegrams…organising the route of the lycan-master's cargo from start to finish. In all that time, he had never once set eyes on her. The first two months of her stay spent in the restricted East Wing that had once housed the lycan-master's mistresses.  _The rest of her time now spent lurking in an abandoned catacomb with one of the lycan-master's personal guards watching an unlocked door._   _A six-foot-tall bull of a man, who had had little to say over the past ten minutes beyond "stay back."_

The two of them standing at attention until they heard the sound of boots echoing from the far corridor. _Lucian was coming. The master of all who swore themselves to the Horde._  Rather than straighten his shoulders, he sniffed, studying the air and piecing together the smells. Faint laudanum. Grass. Horses.  _Above those three, the tell-tale scent of an alpha and beneath that…nothing. No means of scenting his mood for the master had made it a practice to mask all but the most obvious of indicators._

Moments later, he was upon them.

The master of their existence striding up the hallway with a riding crop.  _His scowl daring them to say anything of his tardiness._ " _Eve_ -ning," he said, lengthening the first syllable. There was a long smear of mud across his waistcoat, something he as usual had either not noticed or did not care to notice.  _He must have been breaking a horse._

Weylan bent his neck, handing him the second folio. "Sir."

The bull saluted sharply, looking as though he wanted to gore Weylan for addressing the lycan-master first. " _Sir_."

"As you were," the lycan-master muttered at both of them, flipping through the documents, more concerned with the papers than decorum. "Weylan, you've met Aron, haven't you…"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

The lycan-master looked up briefly, passing a jaded eye over both of them before waving the riding crop left, then right. "Aron, this is Weylan. Weylan, this is Aron." His attention passed from their heads to the door. "Shall we go in?"

"At your leisure," Weylan said, dropping his voice to an understated murmur as the guard walked to the opposite end of the hall _._  "…and if I may be so bold to ask…"  _He had to ask_. "…why the catacombs, sir?"

"Why indeed," the master reflected, seeming to hold an unspoken grudge against the door as he turned the handle, stepping forward, and letting their vision adjust. A moment in the dark before he turned, smiling his bitterness. "Suffice it to say, the woman you are about to meet is very stubborn," he said, shutting the door behind them. He then raised an arm, indicating that Weylan should go first into whatever hell they were about to enter. The circular steps winding down into the earth, the ceiling at times close enough to warrant ducking their heads. Mold on the walls and an icy draft beneath their feet. _It stank of the dead._

When they reached the bottom, Weylan saw a light beneath the iron door. The lycan-master, seeming to find its presence interesting, said nothing and with only a brief nod in the way of preparation, he took hold of the door's handle and pushed. A freezing gust of air sweeping past them. The path leading them through the first cell of stones and dirt into the second. The light coming from four candles laid on an oak table and at the far end, a woman seated on one of three battered chairs. Her shoulders covered by a dingy blanket and her breath showing as mist.  _It was freezing down here._

_And this was not the woman he had expected._

She was old…but like nothing he had ever seen before. White hair hanging limp to her shoulders, but the ends uneven, like they had never been cut properly. Dressed like a man whose clothing had been tailored to fit a woman; her torso bundled in a woollen shirt buttoned to her neck, her legs hidden in a thick pair of grey breeches. Her knees drawn up as though she were perching. Her eyes turning towards him as he entered and then away, sharp and unforgiving. Like the sea hiding its dead.

"Miss  _Jeanne_  Antoinette…" Lucian had moved between them, his tongue turning to Russian. "…allow me to introduce one of our esteemed advisors, Mr. Weylan Jones." His hand passed in the other direction. "Mr. Jones, I have the pleasure of presenting to you Miss Jeanne Antoinette, recently of Budapest."

The light flickered, casting shadows on her face. _A mysterious woman, hard in the jaw, the wrinkles speaking of a beauty that had been lost._  She looked cagily from one to the other and then spoke, seeming to ignore the elegant introduction. Her words falling on undiscerning ears as she addressed the lycan-master in a flurry of Latin. Pushing her jaw out roughly as she spoke, indicating the papers in his hand.

_Her scent one of profound distrust._

Where her question was blunt, Lucian's reply was quiet. Ingratiating even, like someone who had put a great deal of thought into how he would discuss this issue with the woman in front of him. He indicated himself, Weylan, and the papers they were holding, speaking with an air that spoke of…ease. Sincerity. The sense that everything would be well if she would but look upon the papers.

Her fingers were now gripping the sides of her chair. She spoke a second time, her tone not only rough, but resentful now…like a young woman forced to accept an unappreciated and unwanted caller _. The comparison making no sense even as he thought of it. She was old and weak, perhaps an informant whose Change was late in life. And yet, if she was an informant, why was she not grateful? How could she not see the patience the lycan-master was bestowing upon her…_

The argument seeming to reach an impasse, one the lycan-master was now trying to cross by drawing her back into Russian.  _A diplomat at his best._  He took a seat across from her. "Reinette, I have  _explained_  this matter," he said. "Every exile requires a petition for leniency and Weylan _…_ " He amended the name. " _…_ Mr.  _Jones_  is here to help you. He is a trusted member of our society _,_ one to whom you will  _at least_  give the courtesy of speaking Russian."

Weylan felt the woman's gaze turn on him.  _She did not look impressed, her irises starting to Change in the corners_. He kept his expression steady, his manners calm, yet in his mind, he found himself feeling…disarmed and discounted at the same time.  _A proud creature, she did not smell charmed by his appearance_. Rather, she sniffed sharply and then flicked her attention back to Lucian, a single word falling from her lips. "Minime."

One of the few words he could pick up without a dictionary.

 _No_.

There was an awkward silence. Lucian was staring at her…as though he was not entirely sure what he was seeing…and then very slowly, he put his pen down and leaned across the table. His words quiet, but swift in their intensity. Something that had broken his patience, something Weylan could only imagine had caused the lycan-master to explain precisely why an official status was necessary, why she was being an ungrateful whelp of a vampire, and why he, for one, did  _not_  feel like having her executed on a mere technicality while presenting her to his council.

 _And where charm had failed, rancour had succeeded._ Her face draining of colour before she took a breath and then answered, her voice sounding deeper when she spoke Russian, almost like a crooning song. "You  _said_  you were the final vote." Her tone was accusatory.

"Yes, but I can't  _vote_  on someone that doesn't have papers." He looked at her briefly, and then at the papers. His tone adjusted as though not to…frighten her. _Something Weylan assumed to be a ruse. The man was masking his scent, surely he wished to come across as humane for his own purposes._  "Do you understand…there is nothing to worry about as long as you are forthcoming."

"Forthcoming?" She rubbed her neck, still eyeing him. There were scrapes on the exposed skin, the suggestion that she had spent more than just the last few days crawling through tunnels. "You promised me safety if I chose your side and now you tell me it all hinges on whether I have a perfumed piece of paper or not…"

"A scent card." He left it at that, taking a seat and indicating that Weylan should do the same. The man was running his hand a little bit too hard across the table, his impatience starting to show. "…can we just get this over with?"

She still looked suspicious. "Where does our deal stand?"

Weylan's ears pricked up.  _Deal. The lycan-master was notorious for gambling, and not just with money._ Watching them, he took his seat, blending with the background as he set up the small writing apparatus. His pens and the papers laid out. All the while listening and watching, recording in his memory what was occurring here.  _Though he would never divulge the master's secrets, he counted himself among the ranks of those curious as to how exactly Lucian planned to use this woman…_

Lucian was holding the first page of her residency papers out for her to see.  _The scent of impulsiveness rising out of the mask._  "The deal is the same. You can stay or go, but from my perspective, if you choose to 'stay,' then you need to stand before my council in four months, and to do that, you still  _need_  to have a scent card."

"Are you saying I have to  _travel_  in four months?"

"Perhaps."

She ignored the paper. "So how can the deal be the same if I travel?"

He sighed, letting the paper start to hang. _It was not his arm that was getting tired._  "Because if you do  _not_  travel, you waive your right to demonstrate your worth before my council…and as we both know, Reinette, your  _worth_  is something people need to hear to appreciate."

"Lyosha, my ' _worth'_ …as you call it…is staying downstairs," she said. It was plainly spoken, the speech of a governess explaining the facts of life to little ears.  _Apparently hell had started._

He licked one of his teeth, giving the impression of sharpening them rather than cleaning. "Reinette, think of it as an addendum," he said. "You come upstairs…for an interim of only two weeks. You travel. We present you to my council, and before you know it, you'll be languishing in this…" He looked around him. "…graveyard once more."

"No."

The page fell to the table. "What if I gave you my word?"

"You mean like on the  _ship?_ "

 _Her expression could have melted silver._  Neither of them blinked. A rather tense minute passing before the lycan-master exhaled, his jaw tightening before he spoke, seeming to address the words not only to the ceiling, but to himself. "The lady  _doubts_  me," he said, letting the words settle between them like a bitter wine, its taste found to be wholly lacking in quality. His next words spoken like a gauntlet thrown on the table. "Weylan, act as a witness."  _It was an order._   _One that he gave often, though never in a setting such as this…_

Weylan poised his pen. "Ready, sir."

"Take note that the 'original terms' are the same," he said, looking up to the ceiling, shifting around in his chair until only his profile was visible, seeming to compose his words as he uttered them, the overall effect coming across as listless _._ " _…_ but if it pleases her, we sign a formally notarised addendum dated the fourteenth of January 1900." He made a circular, waving motion with two fingers. "Referring to the original terms of her stay, she is now to be afforded  _two_  weeks of truce from the catacombs, so that she can travel  _once_  during the year." He held up a finger to symbolise the 'once' and then pointed at Weylan. "Add a footnote. The moment we return and she re-enters the catacombs, the truce ends and the deal resumes."

" _Exactly_  where it left off…" She was sitting forward on her chair.

He was now flicking the mud off his waistcoat. "Fine."

"…with all my things intact  _and_  where I left them."

"Yes, yes."

Weylan was writing swiftly, trying to keep up.  _Trying to imagine what kind of deal the lycan-master could possibly have made with this woman. Something that smacked of…stubbornness rather than paperwork. Having served the master for this long, he had some insight into his eccentricities. The kind that typically jumped down holes without telling anyone …_

"Sir, if I may ask…" He coughed his intrusion gently. "…were the original terms witnessed and if so, is there a chance of seeing the document?"

"Witnessed…" The lycan-master's hand stood poised over his shirt for a moment. He seemed to be pondering something. And then he looked up, squinting across the table with an expression that belied the severity of the setting. "… _bloods_ , did we even write them down?"

For a moment, Weylan assumed himself to be the recipient of this question, and then he closed his mouth, realising that it was in fact, the  _woman_  to whom the master was speaking. And she replying. His eyes taking in the sight, astounded by what he was seeing.  _For she could not have known what she was doing. That to…reply…to the master in such a fashion was to invite disaster upon oneself._

"You marked it on the ship. On the  _desk_ ," she added, as though not entirely certain he could comprehend logic. Her eyes folding back to the ceiling, her scent filled with complete disgust, as though once again, she could not believe she had to sit through this.

"Does that count?" He had shifted in his chair again, now looking over his shoulder at her. "I mean, it's wood, not paper, Reinette. It 'breaks before it bends'…"

She narrowed her eyes, saying something curt back in Latin.

"Yes…and you were  _drunk_  the night before that," he replied acidly. "Do you see me judging you?"

Weylan was keeping his eyes on the paper now. He did not trust himself to speak for this was the most…unexpected…thing he had seen in forty years of service. The lycan-master speaking so nonchalantly with a Blood.  _Everyone knew he avoided them. Some suggesting it was too painful for him; others vowing that it was hatred, not pain that kept him away from the Exile's Quarter. Why was he not rebuking her?_

The woman's voice piped up. "Is he writing it down or not?"

"Weylan, write this down." Lucian sat forward, by all appearances, negotiating a peace treaty rather than an underground deal with one of his prisoners. "Original terms—an agreement dated the third of October 1899, between one alias, Aleksey Itzhak, henceforth referred to as Lyosha…" He indicated himself and then waved a tired hand in her direction. "…and one alias, Miss Jeanne Antoinette, henceforth referred to as Reinette, an exiled vampire bound in service to the horde. Full stop."

There was an interim as they waited for him to catch up again. His fingers starting to lock up from the cold, but his hand remaining elegant.  _…bound in the service to the…horde._

Weylan looked up. "Ready."

"Next paragraph." Lucian had his hands behind his head, locking his fingers and leaning back into his chair. "For a period of one year, addendums aside, if Reinette chooses to  _remain_  in the den, referring henceforth to any den under my leadership, she is, from that very hour, allied to me for one century. Full stop. If she chooses to leave…" He paused and then frowned. "Scratch that last word…to  _escape_  rather than remain under my protection, she gets her freedom…in addition to an unnamed head, which we  _both_  agree cannot be written down for reasons of den security." He looked back at the lady, by his expression, inviting her displeasure. "Anything to add?"

She muttered something terse in Latin.

 _It went from bad to worse_. Instead of ordering her to resume Russian, the lycan-master gave a short, mirthless laugh and then turned in his seat, carrying on the conversation, his words suggesting that she could say whatever she had just said, but at the end of day, no one had forced her to shake hands on the deal.  _They were speaking Latin again._  It seemed to be something they just… _did_.

 _The lycan-master's timepiece ticking away as they argued._  The papers lying untouched, the tone of their respective voices starting to remind Weylan  _not_  of an inquisition,  _not_  of a warlord frightening someone into submission, but of…something he could not even begin to put into words. Something his mind was unwilling to say–for even to think it was to insult the pride of their Horde.

 _And at the rate they were going, it would be spring before they even looked at the residency application. Autumn before they even noticed that he was still sitting there. Raze had always made it clear, if at any point, the lycan-master decided to wander off track, it was his job to remind him of the trail. Never argue. Never disobey. Merely remind._  Bearing this in mind, Weylan cleared his throat softly.

They both looked up.

 _Neither of them seemed to appreciate the interruption._  Masking his discomfort, Weylan coughed again, touching a hand to his chest, wishing he had kept silent. It did little but send the conversation down an even worse path, one where they actually seemed to discuss things rather than argue. The woman staring in disgust at  _him_  for several seconds and then speaking to the lycan-master in Russian again. "Does  _no one_  speak Latin any more?"

Lucian shrugged, massaging his beard thoughtfully. "It used to be compulsory," he said. "…but then English took over and Latin became the ground upon which other languages trod. Very sad, but that's just how the modern world moves." He seemed to almost mourn it as much as she did. "Astounding how everyone speaks it…"

"I am not  _everyone_ …"

"And you will not be  _anyone_  if you do not learn English, Reinette." He was bartering, the residency papers seemingly forgotten beneath his hand. "Think of it as an exchange–you learn English, and I will…" It was like dragging teeth. "… _attempt_  to learn Swedish or–whatever it was…and we can astound each other with our abilities."

She said it very quietly.  _"Swedish?"_

The tension growing by a measure. Their eyes locked on one another. He seemed to be chewing on something and then randomly threw out another word. "Finnish."

"Norse," she spat.  _She was doing it again_. Speaking to their…leader…as though he was an idiot, her scent speaking of an aimless dream where she hoped to scrape her nails across his face and come away with something more than hopeless. "I am half… _Norse_ , Lyosha."

" _Pff_ …" He shrugged, giving her a look that said he only wished  _life_  was as simple as her situation. "Half-Sami. Half-Norwegian." Drawing a pen from his coat pocket, he angled the first sheet of her lenience application, writing the words down diligently. "We have  _half_  your papers done already."

" _Norse_."

He scratched it out. "Norse," he amended before looking up. "Anything else?"

She gave him a look.

In response, he seemed to assess it for approximately three seconds and then added a note on the margins of the same paper. "Hates… _ev-_ ery-one," he wrote out slowly, seeming quite comfortable with a woman stripping his skin off with a look. And then he tapped his pen in Weylan's direction, a subtle hint to 'keep up.'

Having learned not to gulp at a young age, Weylan bowed his head gracefully, quickly noting the words 'Sami' and 'Norse' on his copy of the file.  _He was starting to understand what was at play here. The lycan-master was using him not for his charm, but for his presence._  Though she paid little attention to him, the placement of a complete stranger in the room made her more…approachable…to the only person she knew better than a stranger _._

"Moving on _…_ " The master was chewing his pen now. "Caucasian woman." He scribbled a note. " _Wrinkled, grey_  complexion." His pen was running down the list of previous notation from the Lady Allegra, checking off each line. "' _Height/5'2._ ' Very short. ' _Weight/98 lbs_.' Needs to eat something." By his tone, he could have been assessing an artefact. "Irises blue, but let's call them 'heartless and cold.'"  _Check._ "Hair appears white, but if I am  _any_  judge, Reinette, you are…" He frowned, seeming to size her up. "…a natural brunette."

She scoffed, turning away _._

He barely noticed. " _Further_  proof I am gifted," he muttered, writing it down.

Weylan was following along on his own papers, but where the master was actually adding the vulgar notes, he was sticking to the official notations.  _The master must have known he was shaming her. Mortification and anger mingling with the scent of dirt and bones, pride and prejudice…the kind of woman that would prefer torture over the presence of this man…and yet…_ His nose was having difficulty processing this information.  _How to explain the scent lying beneath her anger. The barest hint of it, so faint, that it made him wonder if his nose had gone off._

Appearing unaffected by the contrasting scents he must be smelling, the lycan-master was now thwacking his pen against the table, reading the next section. He underlined two words on the paper, enunciating the Russian. "Buh- _lood_  Lineage."

The woman's eyes darted up from the floor. Her tongue almost spitting the word. "What?"

Lucian snapped his fingers at Weylan.

_A cue._

"Of course, sir…" Weylan sat forward. It was the first time he would get to address this woman. Something he had prepared for, something he was groomed for. _It did not explain why she made him feel like a schoolboy._ "…there are several components to the question, ma'am."  _It felt compulsory to call her 'ma'am', and yet, in all his life, he had never once called a vampire prisoner 'ma'am.'_  "The first being—if you don't mind my asking—were you born a vampire or Changed?'"

"Changed."

"And erhm…" He was having difficulty with his words for the first time in forty years. "…do you recall the name of your Blood Sire?"

"My  _what?_ " There was a cold blush rising with her jaw. She looked affronted.  _The questions were coming across as rude._

"The person who  _changed_  you, Reinette. Man or woman…forget the word 'sire,' we just need a name." Lucian was rocking back and forth on his chair, seemingly intrigued by the angled nature of the floor.

She made a dismissive sound.  _This was the difficult part. Vampires never wanted to give away their history._ "I know it was a woman, but I don't remember her name."

"And I'd say that's guff," said Lucian, starting to scrawl what appeared to be a rather…rude…outline on the side of her residency papers. "…but we can move on if you're too shy to say 'Áris.'"

"Áris is a  _man's_  name." She seemed to be building up a wall around herself. "…so it goes without saying, whomever I was looking for could  _not_  have been the woman who Changed me."

"Unless it was a man that Changed you."

"It was a woman."

"A woman with  _balls_ …" He emphasised the word.

 _They were arguing again_. Weylan making notes as best as he could. He had no idea who Áris was, but there were cases where exiles had no names or dates in their blood history. It should be fine to move on to the next item. "Sir, I've…" Weylan cut in. "I've put down 'Blood Sire: Unknown'…does that work for the time being?"

"Yes, that's fine."  _The lycan-master did not seem to care either way_. They were eyeing each other, apparently able to carry on their arguments without saying anything. "What's next?"

"Year of…" Weylan dared to speak. "…Changing…that is to say, your age, ma'am?"

"Oh, she'll just lie for that." Lucian sat back, speaking casually. "…Reinette, make something up so we can write down 'Lies.'"

Her tongue lashed out. "I  _told_  you I don't remember."

He scoffed. "Which is about as useful as us writing down 'old as Rome' simply because you happen to look that way." Despite the cruelty of his statement, he was looking deep in thought. His arms crossed, the mind still clearly trying to solve this age-old puzzle of how old this woman might be. And yet Weylan could not help but wince.  _For it was also one of those moments; most lycans were familiar with them. The ones where the lycan-master…opened his mouth…and the thing that was in his head…came out of his mouth._

His opponent looking shocked beyond reason. Her perch seeming less certain, her scent suddenly filled with a wave of rancour and hurt. As though even she had not expected him to say that.

The silence pronounced, until the lycan-master began to notice that she was not replying. Considering what he might have just said, and then rubbing the length of his jaw, massaging it as though he was not entirely sure it was still attached. His words coming across as incredibly quiet, given how volatile his reputation was. "That came out wrong."

It was Weylan's turn to gape as much as he was able, his eyes glancing to the side. Keeping his head faced front, but still managing to study the lycan-master's expression.  _Was that an apology? Even if it was, that would be the last they'd hear about it._

"I just  _remember_  you mentioning the baths, Reinette." Lucian was rubbing a finger up and down his brow, as though trying to erase something inside. "Three thousand mortals ladling themselves in greasy water. I believe you called them 'sweaty.'"

"Having a memory of something does  _not_  make it mine, Lyosha." She looked profoundly exhausted. "…and what does it matter how old I am? My face is still wrinkled, my memories are still shot, while  _you_ …" Almost on the verge of cursing, she brandished a finger at him…and then the sentence trailed off.

_You._

She was looking at him with a wondrous expression. The word seeming to hang between them. She squinted as though only now seeing this man in front of her for the first time. A hand moving slowly up to her mouth, a breath of understanding falling from her lips. Soon closing her eyes and then shaking her head, seeming to curse her own stupidity.  _She had realised something…but what?_

_An old woman._

_One who might have remembered things she ought not to have known.._

Already, Weylan was preparing himself, his hand edging towards his revolver.  _She knew something…and if Lucian required it of him, he would do as he must to protect the lycan-master's identity._ Before he could shift his hand, he felt the eyes of Lucian on him, the sudden wash of hostility in his scent giving him enough warning to ' _stand…the fuck…down._ ' Ashamed, he let his left hand fall back into the shadows, his right still holding the pen to the paper.  _Of course the lycan-master could protect himself._

Unaware of the momentary danger, the woman had failed to notice the exchange.  _There was more than just suspicion in her scent now_. She looked tired, yet her thoughts, her questions, her tone was completely on point, like a scent-hound that had found its prey. The only issue being that her words were now in Latin. She gestured to herself, the language cascading off her tongue for the third time that evening.  _Even if he'd learned it as a child, he'd not have been able to follow it_. She was asking something of the lycan-master, the two of them seeming to have a reached a place beyond argument. The master listening with a brooding air, keeping his peace and waiting for the entirety of her question.

_Something serious._

Unable to translate, Weylan kept his hand ready.  _For the revolver, not the pen_. His interest piqued. The Roman baths. She was right in saying memories could be passed during the Change…even select memories if an immortal was strong enough.  _But if the one who Changed her knew who the lycan-master truly was…there could be a problem. A serious problem if they had to put her in front of the council._  He continued to hold in his curiosity, waiting for the answer…and receiving disappointment instead. _Dismissal_. The lycan-master's hand rising and for a moment, making a hand signal that went without saying…

_Wait outside._


	47. The Age of Demons

**Chapter XLVII: The Age of Demons**

_Ten seconds later._

The door shut behind the pristine Mr. Weylan. Giving her leave to let her breath out…admit to herself that she was now more comfortable. That she missed her veil. That her appearance was made all the more wretched in the company of this youthful stranger whose face was so sweet to the eye. The words of Lucian still ringing in her ears. The truth of his insults. _But now she wanted more from him than just his insults. She wanted his memories_ _—_ _not of war, not of his years in hiding_ _—_ _but of something far older than that_ _…_

_…_ _the purge._

"You were _there_ ," she said with a deliberate emphasis on the last word. __How could she have been so oblivious?__ _He was old enough to remember. He had to be. So was Tanis. The thought making her wonder if all those years ago, she had asked Tanis the same question.  
_

Lucian was thumbing his beard. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"The purge of bloodseers." She was watching him, looking for some reaction, some hint as to what lay beneath his skin. "You were…" She was trying to be careful with that word. "…a slave…when the purge was happening. You were alive then."

"So?"

It felt like she was accusing him of something. "Did you see it?"

"You mean did I catch a glimpse through the bars," he said mysteriously. He was being taciturn, starting to roll his pen between his thumbs, eyeing the door. _He had to remember, and yet, she had to be careful not to press him too far._

She leaned forward. "A glimpse, a sound…" She was trying to explain herself, at the same time realising the danger of this conversation. _She must never betray_ _Á_ _ris._ "I was never raised in the covens, but there was a…" _Say it_. "…a _war_ brewing to the east of us. I think the ones who taught me might have been a part of it, but the dates are…hazy for me.."

"A war…" His ears seemed to prick. "…what kind of war?"

She raised her shoulders, despite her own fears, choosing to speak the truth. "I think they were fighting the purge…" _She was getting too close to speaking about her mentor._ "…but I know I was at least a certain…age…when they left."

"How old?" He sounded bored, but she suspected the emotion was deceiving. _Never one to ask unless he wanted an answer. Never one to linger without reason _.__

Her focus shifting back to her hands, trying to put together her answer. _If she was not careful, another deal_ _would fall on her head_. "Perhaps I could tell you what year…or decade I was Changed if you could tell me…what you know about the purge or…" Her suggestions starting to sound like a lost cause. _He had the upper hand._ "…even show me. If I could _read_ any of the history that you have…"

"There is no history." He scratched the back of his neck, finally turning around in his seat to face her rather than the door. "All the scrolls were destroyed," he added, resting his jaw on his chest, his shoulders starting to hunch down. "…so even if I accounted for what I remember, it would just be a memory."

"And that is all I need," she said hastily. _It was the first time she had truly wanted anything from him._ "Just a memory, Lyosha." She was already pulling her knees closer to her body, hoping to blood that he would not change his mind. _In centuries past, she might have cringed at the idea of pleading to a lycan…but as with most of her decisions of late, she had no other choice._ "Just so I can understand what happened."

"Memory and understanding are two different things, Reinette; I do not promise one over the other." He was being deathly serious, the casual manners stripped away in the face of something that actually mattered. "Nevertheless, if I tell you this, you _sign_ that addendum. You tell Weylan everything he needs to know, and you get your papers cleared. Understood?"

She ducked her jaw quickly. _She would do it._

He shrugged as if to say _'alright.'_ The silence dragging for so long that she began to think he would never speak; but then he leaned forward, clasping his hands together, staring at them as though they held the memory. The candle flickering on the table between them. The walls drawing in as though they were sitting in a cave and he had begun to tell her a story of spirits and demons. The draft from the tunnels echoing like the whispers of the dead.

 _His voice among them_.

"So from what I know," he began. "…the blood-seers were a fixture in the coven until around 1046 A.D.…mid-century." There was a thin trail of mist drifting from his mouth, her mind imagining it to be the forms of men. "Some say they were as old as Delphi, the men of their order holding the same sway over vampires as oracles once held over men. Others say they were descended from a fourth son of Corvinus, one that was cast out in his final days…"

She said nothing to that. _It was true that most blood-seers had been men. But the part about a fourth son of Corvinus was a legend_. _A myth. In the words of _Á_ _ris_ , only fools followed after myth._

He seemed to take her reticence in stride, pausing for less than a few seconds before he continued. "And as the tale went…whoever wanted their days foretold had only to bring a small token of blood to the order. The seers would then take it away and within the night, they would return with words." His hands were rubbing against one another like a man brooding on his sins. "Words that often made no sense, but words filled with enough truth to keep them respected by the coven…"

A voice from the depths of her mind compelling her to speak. "For it was said, their faces would be on the council before the end," she whispered. _Her voice harsh, but in tune with his. For it felt like she could see them all_ _…_ _their ghosts standing in a row, looking upon the future with eyes that had been gouged out_ _…_

__…_ but she could not._

Her heart beating faster as she realised Lucian had stilled in his chair. That he was now eyeing with her suspicion. _Even doubt. As though he was beginning to suspect her of knowing more than she let on._ But his suspicion was unfounded. _It was just a memory. A memory of_ _Á_ _ris teaching her what was lost before the purge._ Before he could ask, she turned her eyes away from the tunnel, explaining the words to her captor. "I remember being told they were…" She searched for the term. _"_ _…_ that…the Elders…had instated them. That there was…pride…in being a blood-seer at one time."

There was a long pause, one that waited for her to say more. Her fears growing that he would not continue, but then he sat back. "Yes," he said, seeming to brood his way back into the story again."…but pride can only last as long as good favour. And as fate would have it…" The story descended once more into what seemed a myth. "…there came a night when a very proud Elder wanted good favour."

 _An Elder_.

She pursed her lips, thinking back on the lessons of her childhood. _In all their days, the Elders had never once allowed their blood to come in contact with the seers. One of the first lessons she had been taught as a child_ … _only a leader will refuse._ "I find this hard to believe," she said.

"Which part?" By the tone, he found her observation unsurprising.

"All of it." She was being curt in her answers, but they had moved into the realm of discussion; he would stay merely for the sake of proving his point. "A blood-seer can offer the vision, but a leader is meant to refuse or risk bringing a curse upon his head." _She was reciting the words of _Á_ _ris_ …the lesson that a leader would be struck down in his path if he ever touched his blood to a seer's lips. Why did it feel as though she no longer believed in them?_ "Throughout history, our purpose was for the common people. The soldiers. The hunters," she explained, raising her jaw at him. "It is how I knew your standing. You refused."

"Well, this one accepted…" There was a hardness entering his voice. "…and for his pride, he did not wait on ceremony. He followed after the seers and demanded they give him his prophecy first-hand. Every word…exactly as it was spoken." His eyes now captured by the darkness of the tunnel as well. _Seeing a past that she could not._ "…and in the months that followed, accidents started happening. Cleansing ceremonies, seers accused of all manner of crimes against the Covenant…"

_The way he spoke of it_ _…_

"You were there?"

"No…" And for once, he actually looked apologetic. As though somehow he wished he could have had a different answer. "…but I was told the story by another."

"Who?" She was sitting forward in her chair. _In her mind, she had always assumed him to be one of the oldest lycans, the most infamous_ _…who could have told him this…  
_

"A dead man," he replied, giving her a reason to stop questioning him. A trace of silver entering his eye before he continued with his myth of a story. "So eventually _…_ " He was starting to brush the mud off his chest again. " _…_ the Elder fell asleep, and things became normal again. Seers were tolerated, soldiers sought their fortunes…and then almost two hundred years later, the same Elder woke from his sleep." His hand stilled. There was a pause for breath, as though he needed it before continuing. "…and three days after his Awakening, a new _rule_ was added to the Covenant." The word seeming to lie rank on his tongue. "…so that one day, blood-seers were tolerated…and the next, they were executed in public. Skewered on swords and thrown out the gates before sunrise."

She felt her throat grow taut. _They were left to the sun._ "Did any escape…"

"A few." His eyes were looking past her again. "…but the vast majority were hunted down on that first day." His tone becoming methodical. "First the guild-house, then the chapter-houses, and then the forests to which they fled. All of them dead by nightfall."

"How many?"

"At least a hundred souls," he replied. The silver running deeper into his eyes, glazing them like porcelain on metal. "Twice that number after the outlying covens were informed of his decision."

"Whose?"

Even as she asked, she did not want to hear the answer. _To hear was to open a box that could never be shut. For though she feared the Elders, throughout her life, they had been a triad_ _…_ _all of their faces put together in her mind like a three-headed Cerberus. There had never been one to hate more than the others. One whose name was now_ _…_

"Viktor." Across from her, Lucian was very precisely examining the pen in his hand. His voice never rising above a murmur. "You see, he was _relentless_ ," he said, studying the lines along the metal, the ink that smeared his fingers. "He knew they were out there, so of course, he had to hunt them." A half-smile that could not justify the words he spoke. "Hunt them…and bring them back so they could be executed."

 _The last words sounding like an order._ She was starting to feel very cold, her voice sounding small. "When was the last execution?"

"Around 1262 A.D…something like that?" His voice had become vacant. "They were hounded for almost fifty years," he said. The pen seeming to hold his entire world for that single moment _…_ and then he inhaled, waking up from the memory and turning towards her, the pen forgotten. Like a grounded man trying to study the flight of birds. "And then there's you," he said.

_Her?_

She spoke carefully. "What do you mean?"

He put the pen down, clasping his hands together again. Speaking to the fingers as though they now held more than just the memory. "I mean, there had to have been over… _sixty_ …executions after the first massacre…" Every word spoken with mounting precision as though he were trying to feel his way down a shrinking path. "Blood-seers, their accomplices, their children…by the orders of Viktor, they were all hunted down for the sake of _one_ drop of blood." There was a pause before he looked up at her. _Patiently still trying to understand her perspective._ "Can you not see the common thread?"

"All I can see are these walls," she said, indicating the space around them with a rough jerk of her jaw. _Her tone stubborn; her answer unfair for_ _of course she could see it._ _Both of them persecuted; like the lone scorpion crossing the river, he expected her to cling to the back of a wolf._

_But it was not in her nature._

He seemed to sense as much, but as it was against hers to accept, it was against his to give up. "Reinette, if you _accept_ your place in this society, the walls will come down. You will have a lifetime of being accepted for your abilities," he said.

"Freedom and acceptance are two different things," she replied. _She did not have to even think to answer. He of all people should be able to understand that._ "The same way you baulk at being a slave, I baulk at being a tool of war."

A terse look of disgust crossed his face. "You would not be a _tool_ _…"  
_

She interrupted. "Is that not what Viktor said to the lycans?"

The question bringing him up short; as though he could not fathom her words, his gaze drifted to the candle, his hand searching for the pen again. "No," he said abruptly, tapping it against his palm. _The sense that they had come full circle in the conversation._ _His answer coming from somewhere_ _…_ _bitter._ "We were never given a choice. We were given axes and picks—told to dig our own prison and then whipped into submission once we finished it. The branding was just a courtesy."

"And where is _your_ brand?"

"I cut it off," he said. His mind seeming elsewhere. The light from the candle sketching a picture of youth. But the eyes making her see the truth of what he was. _Old_. _He was very old_. _And tired._ Something that she almost began to pity until she actually _…_ heard _…_ the words. _The conversation reminding her that she was not just talking to Lyosha or Aleksey. The vision reminding her that she knew exactly what he looked like…and that there was no brand on his body._

And then she blanched.

_"How?"_

He snorted, pulling the papers to his side of the table again. "How do you _think_ ," he said. His voice had become brusque. Despite his previous sentiments, another wall coming up between them. "Can I presume that is the last memory I need to regurgitate this evening?"

She let out a breath, watching it mist in front of her. "Yes." _There was more to this story. More to what he knew_ _…_ _but for now, she would leave it_. She was starting to wonder if she even wanted to know the rest. "Are you bringing Mr. Jones back in?"

"Still thinking about it…" He was scrubbing his face as though trying to clean it of something. Like a hound needing to shake something off before he could continue in good stead.

"Lyosha, you think too much." The words spoken again without much thought to consequence. And yet it seemed again that it was her right to speak so and his to respond in kind.

"Do I now?" He looked up from his hands, and inexplicably smirked, latching the fingers behind his head. "Good thing you let me know, Reinette, or I might have gone on thinking about how freezing it is down here…" The expression turned bored. "Scratch that. Thinking about being somewhere warm and supple in about nine minutes, so let's hurry this up." He snapped his fingers three times, reaching for the pen, indicating the papers with the tip. "Year of Birth, if you please… _"_

_Perfect._

_She could hardly tell if it was worse that she understood his terminology for intercourse or that she considered it normal._ Trying not to rise to the occasion, she rested her chin upon her knees and nodded in agreement. _He had shared what he knew, and for that, she would give him what she knew._

"If your dates are correct," she said, ignoring the eye-roll—o _f course he assumed his dates were correct, but swift calculation had never been her strong suit_. "…the purge went on for fifty years, so I must have been.…" She chewed her tongue for a moment. _She was probably off by twenty years, but he needed a number, so she'd have to estimate_. "…at least two hundred and fifty when it started."

"Come again?"

"Two hundred and fifty. Give or take."

"Give or take," he said. Fixing her with a look. Putting his pen down. Taking the time to place both palms on the table before muttering what sounded like an English curse under his breath. _"_ So 'give or take,' Reinette, you were born in the 10th century?"

"Around then," she said, scrubbing her legs, trying to get some more warmth in them. _And he could eye her with as much angst as he wanted, but there was little she could do beyond giving a rough estimate. "…_ if it helps, there _were_ lycans when I was Changed, but they were still…" _What was the word?_

"Savage?"

She made an affirmative sound, folding her head on her knees. "I think they were being hunted."

"Well that makes a change."

"No," she said, giving him a look. "It was an _annual_ hunt, Lyosha." This was all becoming quite familiar to her all of a sudden. Her vision growing sharper with the memory. "An ancient silver-back," she whispered, feeling a hint of nostalgia. "Twenty feet tall with teeth up to his eyes." The tales had been magnificent. Reminding her of a time when beasts were hunted instead of caged. "I think _half_ the covens must have been vying for his ugly—"

He cleared his throat.

Loud enough for her to suck the last word back in. The rest of the sentence lost, but her memories finally registering whose head she was talking about. _The expressionless head that often showed no reaction when he was being insulted._ As usual, she tried to hold his gaze and then found herself unexpectedly looking at the ceiling, trying not to grip her chair any harder _._ Her pride still smarting from his insults, but some sick sense of right and wrong telling her it was wrong to return the favour.

To his credit, he did not look angry. Merely perplexed. "I think you were about to say 'ugly head,'" he said. "Is that right?"

_It might be._

He was examining his pen now, plainly waiting for her to admit the sentence. No doubt enjoying himself all of a sudden. Struggling for words, she broke off a third time before ending on his own colloquialism. _How had he put it?_

"Oh for bloods' sake, fine. It came out wrong," she snapped. Closing her eyes in frustration, saying the words before she could dig the hole any deeper. "Sometimes I see you in this form." It was a harsh truth. "...and I forget that you were ' _that'_ at one time." She rephrased quickly. "That you… _are_ …that, I mean."

_Blood._

_She had just called him a 'that.'_

She stole a look at her palms, wondering how she could be sweating in the midst of winter. Her palms eventually losing out to the sight of one of his boots shifting beneath the table. Like someone who had not quite decided whether he was going to stay or walk out of a play just yet. One who might still be persuaded to sit through the second act.

" _That_ ," he repeated. The long pause suggesting thoughts that went deeper than the hole she had dug _._ His expression, when she looked, starting to resemble the same one Rena had sported the night she'd assumed they were sleeping together. His words put together slowly, for the sake of one who _was_ …slow. "Reinette, I think you are mistaking me for someone else."

_Not the words she was expecting._

Her tongue forgetting to speak. Her brain trying to pull itself together before her nose sniffed. She eyed him. And then smoothed her hands down the side of her shirt. "I may not be able to say your name, Lyosha," she said, sitting up, holding her back straight. "…but do not think for a moment that I have mistaken it for someone else..."

"No, I'm quite sure you know my name, Reinette."

She countered. "Then how could I be mistaking you for someone else?"

_It was absurd._

She was sure of herself. One of the few memories she knew in her gut to be true. For he was a monster _. _Ruthless…the slaughter of thousands at his hand. The desecration of the smaller covens. The killing of men, women, and children. Mortals and vampires alike. The night of flame and retribution…__ How many stories had she heard of his cruelty. _ _A_ creature of nightmares, the silver-backed beast of the night. His likeness splayed across the pages of every history Áris had ever kept in that chest._

"There was an illumination," she finally explained, gesturing towards the shadows at his back. _He might be in his human form now, but under all that skin, there was an animal. A beast. A raging demon_. "…you were…silver-backed. And monstrous. There were teeth everywhere."

"Reinette." His expression had grown tighter, but he retained a placid tone of voice, one who was patient enough to translate her insults into a useful sentence. "Monstrous I may be…and there are teeth everywhere. But contrary to your opinion…" He held up a hand and to her horror, it began to Change. The talons growing in kind and the hair sprouting from its skin. "…I am not a silver-back."

She stared at the hand. _It was shocking. Grotesque, the nails sprouting into talons, the skin covered in coarse…black…fur._ Her eyes widened as it very abruptly transformed back into a human hand. _If he was not the monster, then who _…_  
_

" _Wiliam,"_ he said, his voice cutting like a whip, the rest of him choosing then to sit back as though he had finally seen it all. _The leaps and bounds she had taken towards proving her stupidity._ "You are thinking of William Corvinus _."_

She felt her mouth turn into an 'oh.' _William. The first of the lycans, the son of Alexander Corvinus. The name conjuring up a faint sense of memory. It was William in that book. Lucian came…later in the scheme of things. Still a creature of the dark, still a monster, but…later. Her memories must have consolidated them._ And then her scowl turned into a confused squint. "But when were you born?"

"I don't know, Reinette, when _was_ I born?" he said a little too lightly. An octave away from mimicking her voice. Looking at her as though she were completely obtuse. _Her mind having trouble processing why he seemed to think she was an imbecile. Why he was still waiting for her to realise that_ _…_

_Oh._

_Blood._

"You're…"

She was starting to splutter.

The blanket falling from her fingers. The rest of her putting two and two together, only to come up with _less_ than two hundred and fifty. Her tongue about to fall out of her mouth."…you're _younger_ than me?"

He did not look amused. As though to say ' _finally,'_ he rolled a sharp eye and scrawled the notation on the paper, seeming to ignore her splutter out of principle. "I'll put down 'late 10th century' until we have a specific date. The rest I believe Weylan can deal with."

_It was awful._

_There was no other word to describe it. Just awful. It did not matter that he was just as unimpressed with the situation as her, that they had both gone months thinking what had turned out to be an incorrect assumption. And it should not matter. He was a lycan. What did she care for his age? What business was it of hers if he was a few years younger? Or a few decades. Or centuries._

" _How_ much younger?" She was leaning forward past her chair. The blanket again clutched in her hands. Fingers that were…old. _Wrinkled. How could she be older than him? _And what the hell had possessed him to call her young woman?_  
_

Appearing tranquil if not amused, he capped his pen. "Does this mean you're staying with us for the next century?"

"No."

"Well in _that_ case, I…am…" Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out his pocket-watch and flipped it open. _Examining the golden face as though it held the answers to life._ And then he clapped it shut without a care. "…not telling."

"Two hundred."

He shrugged. "Still not telling."

"A _hundred_ and fifty." She was blurting out ages.

He squinted one eye. "You know, it sounds like you're _bidding_ on something, Reinette."

"A hundred."

"Keep bidding …" Looking thoughtful, he tucked the pocket-watch back into his waistcoat. Getting to his feet, his tone dripping with condescension. "…I'm leaving without you, but _keep_ bidding."

 _Her teeth were out_.

She almost got the retort out as well, but his duties seemed to descend upon him as he called out sharply. " _Weylan_." In the distance, the door opened and Weylan stepped forward, his back straight, his manners polished and smooth. A very quick hand signal prompted the man to cross the room, approaching them again. _Robbing her of_ _…_ _company. Conversation. Her retort._

_Not that he would notice._

He was already signing the addendum. "Assist our lady in anything else she requires…within reason," he added. "…and if you would be _so_ good, give her a run down on what's expected in four months. Preparation is key." He flipped the paper over and shifted it in front of her. "Read…and then sign."

She let her eyes flick over the document, reading under her breath. _Weylan had taken her language into account._ She breathed out…and then took the pen from his hand, signing the name across the bottom in Russian letters, copying the same spelling that Weylan had used. The first time she had written it on paper.

_Jeanne_ _…_

_…_ _Antoinette._

They did the same for the addendum. And then he left. Hardly a goodnight…and only the curious eyes of Weylan to keep her company now. His manners graceful and polite. His Russian sweet to the ear as Kolya's had been. His words going in one ear and out the other as her thoughts lingered on the door that Lucian had passed through. _In a year's time, if she lost that wager, the danger would not be in her surroundings. It would be in youth. Temptation.  
_

Weylan's voice like a chime in her ear. _In four months, she must only speak when spoken to. In four months, she must answer all questions truthfully. In four months_ _…_ _she would stand before the lycan council_ _…_ _and her life would depend on that council's decision._

_Her life._

Only then did she turn her ear to Weylan and listen.

o…o…o

_Thirty miles from London. Near the Port of Tilbury._

An exiled vampire was sobbing on his knees. He was trapped in an abandoned brewery, the tools of his trade scattered on the wooden floor. Copper pipes rising to the ceiling and steam bubbling out of a giant urn filled with ale. Above him stood a man who ought to have been dead. Someone he had not seen in almost three hundred years. He and that…woman. _His flesh still cowering in fear when he thought of her. The missing tips of his fingers still aching after all these years._

"I'll do anything…" He was begging, his Russian as broken as his leg. "…anything. Please, Nikolai… _please_." _He had a life now. He had changed. He was no longer a part of their_ _…_ _their sick company._

The vampire Kolya leaned down, taking hold of his hands. Clasping them as though in supplication. "Everything I need," he said. "…is on this list." Elegantly, he pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket, holding it over his target's shuddering face. "You have four months before I call on you again."

The paper fell between the man's fingers. He was ducking his head fervently, the tears running down his face. _He would do as Nikolai wanted him to do. He would do it. Anything._

_Even for a murderer._

The murderer laid a hand on his shoulder. "Your dog-wife," he said. "…she will _live_ if you do this for me." And then he smiled, his teeth shining like pearls. His tongue mimicking the English as he held a hand out. "It is _good_ , yes?"

"Yes, Nikolai." He took the hand, shaking it quickly. "It is good." _His wife would live. That was all that mattered. Gwen would live._ The blunt stubs of his right-hand fingers grasping at the floor. Pinching the list from the ground and skimming it. _Dynamite. Paraffin oil. Matches. Sterling silver. Iron file. Blood rations._ He could get all of these easily… _why was the man threatening him with murder if all he need was a few supplies_ …but then his eyes reached the bottom of the list. His voice…his hands shaking as he looked up. "But I…I cannot…find someone like this…"

"Then _change_ someone…" Kolya had closed his eyes, as though in a waking dream, but still holding one of his hands. "…and have it _done_ before four months is finished, yes?" The claws starting to grow into his flesh. "…I need her to be…that. _Exactly_ …like that."

"Ah…h…" He was cringing beneath the claws. His blood was starting to drip from the wounds. "…yes," he cried out. He was gritting his teeth, trying to smile into the pain. "…it will be as you say."

His words touching on that faith that seemed to have finally driven the vampire mad. It was the most gruesome part. _The angel's teeth drawing back into a caricature of a smile._ "Then we are friends," Kolya whispered.

"Yes." Terrified, the man spoke quickly, feeling as though his head was about to nod itself off. "We are friends," he wept. His head falling in defeat.

His hand clutched by a madman _. One who carried the dead in his veins. One who shook hands before killing his victims. But in the midst of his madness, in the midst of that hunger_ _…_ _that dream that helped him kill_ _…_ _the monster had made a promise: his wife would live. All he had to do was help Kolya take back this woman in four months_ _…_

_…_ _and his Gwen would live._


	48. The Eve of Inquisition

**Chapter XLVIII: The Eve of Inquisition**

_Four months later._

_She was not ready for this._ Winter passing too quickly. Spring bringing with it one of their lycan safe-boxes lined with silk and a Russian alias that meant even less to her than ' _Reinette_.' A journey of at least two days and nights, the scent of the sea and the rattle of horse-drawn carriages and trains, before she woke in a stone room, its contents almost identical to the one in Paris.  _But this was no Exile's Quarter. There was no sound anywhere. Only the feeling of solitude as Rena left her to her own devices._  She waited there for several days…until one evening, they came for her.

First the blindfold…and then the inquisition. A nameless lycan whose vocal chords had been distorted. Someone she would likely never know. His voice at the heart of an examination that went on for hours. An entire day of answering questions with her eyes covered _. What was a lycan to her? How did she feel about the lycan cause? Did she believe in the equality of the two races?_ Her answers not so much truthful as exact copies of what Weylan had told her to say. Her voice coming across as insincere even to herself. _The lies she was telling; her mind filled with the proud voice of her mentor as she spewed their lycan dogma._

Before the nameless one was satisfied, the first week of her fortnight was over. The next evening filled with nausea and pain.  _Hours of having blood dripped on her tongue. Her captors testing her for her gift; forcing her to speak prophecy after prophecy._  Like a ringmaster's dog, trained for the sake of its audience.

 _First a single drop._  Four hours between every drop, giving her a chance to recover. _Then two drops._ Eight hours between every two, enough time for her to rest. Feed. Ready herself for the next touch of poison.  _He had told her it was for the sake of his council, that they must see before they could believe._  But it did not change the loathing she felt.  _The hours of sickness._

_o…o…o_

By the final night of her inquisition, she could not walk without aid. Her back so used to curling in nausea that to walk upright was to strain herself. Her bones calling for pity as she felt the hand of Rena on her shoulder, guiding her forward like a blind woman being led to the executioner. Her hands tied behind her back and a coarse sackcloth pulled over her head. Both ears plugged with cotton and her eyes covered with linen.  _She was not to see nor hear a single member of this council._

But in the absence of sight and sound, there was touch…the sensation of Rena's hand leaving her in the open. The small traces of movement felt in the soles of her boots as creatures began to circle. Stepping around her. Peering into her face, breathing the air that she breathed.  _They were around her_ … _and though she might loathe him right now,_ _Blood let him be among them._ Even if he was, she was not to call out his name. She was to be silent before those who would judge her.  _She was to keep her calm…_

… _for there was nothing to fear_.

The last words spoken to her by Lucian in the nights before they left the London Den.  _Just over a week ago in the catacombs_.  _His hand poised over a bishop and his attention turned on the ceiling. Hearing something that she could not._ At first she had presumed it to be a trick; another means of winning this game of exile and acceptance that they had been playing for months. The multitude of things left on the table for her in the course of four months: a bowl of devil's ice; a pair of gloves, warmer than the ones she had lost; an ink-pen within a day of the old drying out—and then the chess-board.

_The pieces laid and the first move already made. Black pawn to the King's third square. For days, she ignored it; and then after a week, she moved a pawn. White to the Queen's third square. The next evening, one of his pawns had shifted forward again _…_ and then another…and another after that. The game taking weeks of her time, but the outcome always the same._

Check-mate.

He  _always_  won. The politeness of letting her win in their previous games dissolving into what seemed a remorseless hunger for victory. Towards the end of each game, he would appear, taking an hour or so to finish the kill; for the most part, their conversation non-existent _. Even worse, the days when he brought a book along, the letters always in a language she could not read, as though it only took half his attention to grind her soldiers into dust._  He also had an uncanny sense of when to leave, for she had been close to winning when his attention rose to the mysteries above; and in the end, he left before they could finish the last game _. The board abandoned on the table._ Her thoughts returning to the present.  _Like a single pawn surrounded by an army._

_o…o…o_

The sackcloth was pulled roughly from her head, the sudden movement making her stumble.  _Rena was gone._ The guidance of Weylan failing its first test as a hand began untying the linen from her eyes.  _They were going to let her see them. Something that was…dangerous._ As the linen fell, she kept her eyes shut.  _She did not want to see their faces. It would be another lock on the door, another means for making her stay._  Her ears unused to sound as the cotton fell from her ears. Her hands no longer tied. Suddenly afraid, she pressed her palms to her face, standing firm, unwilling to look upon the heads of those who were high in this culture.  _The elders of the lycan world._

"Bloodseer."

_Lucian._

"You can open your eyes," he said. His voice coming from the space in front of her. Approximately twelve feet away. The sound glancing off stone. She could hear dripping water in the distance.  _A cave. Or a mausoleum._

"No." She kept her hands where they were.  _Speaking Russian as Weylan had told her to do._  "My trade is my voice. My voice is in blood," she replied.  _One of the mantras of a bloodseer_. "…but I am not so foolish as to look upon your faces."

"Come, bloodseer…we live in a world of masks." He sounded so aloof. "You will see no faces beyond those you have seen. Lower your hands…and show us your trade."

Blood was rising into her cheeks.  _In this world, he was a stranger to her. A distant emperor of wolves, one who deigned to give others his mercy._ She lowered her hands, the surroundings rising above her, showing that which she feared. Ten forms seated in twelve chairs of oak, their bodies swathed in black and their faces covered in ancient masks of wood, the features etched from the mind of a madman. The noses misshapen, the eyes twisted or missing. Until they spoke, there was no way of knowing who was who, whether they be man or woman.

Seeking a defining thread, she turned once, looking upon all their masks, the two empty seats and then upon the one without a chair. The one who led them. _Lucian._  Unmasked, he was leaning against the side of a stone wall, wearing the same garb. His hood pulled back and his mask placed on the floor, its features covered in more scars than the rest of them combined.  _As though his was the first hewn. The oldest…and the strongest among them._

_The leader.  
_

"Do you wish to know your prophecy?" Already, she had disobeyed the second instruction of Weylan, her voice rising up before they could speak to her. The words hanging in a space that would dictate her right to live.  _She might be afraid, but if they wished to see her hands shake, they would be sorely disappointed._

An angry voice broke from the council. _Hate-filled._  "It is  _we_  who ask the questions, old blood."

Lucian made no move.  _The lack of reaction reminding her of that first night—the lack of sympthy he typically showed towards others. The preference for observation rather than intervention. T_ _he sense that she would have to fend for herself if she wanted this judgement to be favourable._

She sought the mask that had spoken. "Then you have forgotten ceremony," she said, her voice tired, her throat that of one who had no time for the follies of youth. "I will need a token before I can speak of what things may come." Her hand raised to point, her finger gnarled, aiming at the one against the wall.  _If there was a leader present, the vision must be offered._  "Do you wish to know your prophecy?"

Whether it was her choice to pay little attention to their insults or the act of moving forth with a ceremony they knew little about, it seemed her naysayers would set aside their objections for the moment. The heads of the council turning in unison, like an army staring at the one who led them _._   _Of all the people in the room, he seemed the most unaffected by the ritual. For he knew what she needed to ask.  
_

"I do not," he said.

 _It was the right answer._ The ceremony continuing as it would have in the years before the Purge.  _Something that she had had much to think about in the last four months. The death of an entire people, and her memories holding the last of their culture and lore. Even if she was a prisoner, as much as she was able, she would keep their traditions. She would cleave to ceremony as Áris had done…_

Hardening her resolve, she lowered herself to her knees, placing her palms on the stone floor, waiting for the token.  _According to ceremony, once a leader stepped back, the duty fell to another to take his place._ The minutes passing as no one stepped forward.  _They were doing it to make her uncertain of herself. To frighten her into thinking she had no purpose in this place._ Still she waited, feeling the hard stone through the thickness of her dress, feeling the ire of these creatures who lived in shadow.  _They did not trust her…but that did not mean they would not use her._

Finally, on her right, one from among the council stood, unveiling a bowl and a knife from a hidden place in the black garb. The knife touching skin for a brief moment. The fine hairs on the skin telling the tale of a fair-haired man whose skin was sallow. The blood dripping into the bowl, staining it with red before he held it up, rising to his feet and stepping forward to place the bowl before her. She looked up only briefly.  _The slits of the mask covered with a dark gauze that hid the colour of his eyes._

"How many drops?" she asked.

In answer, the slits of the mask looked to the leader, but Lucian had already taken leave of that side of the room.  _Like an aimless beast prowling the edges of a cage. Her perception of him having altered very little since discovering the difference in their ages. He might be younger, but whether from having lost her memories or being thrown into a society of which she was ignorant—the fact remained, he seemed older than her. As though he had seen more._ His arms folding over the high back of an empty chair, resting a tranquil hand on the ornate carvings before he spoke. "Three."

_Damn him to silver._

She managed to keep the words in her mouth. She had expected the worst, but still felt compelled to curse him; readying herself, swallowing and taking a moment _…_ to breathe before she reached an unsteady hand before the bowl. The blood warm on her finger; the sight of red making her stomach recoil.  _One more vision,_ she thought.  _One more_ _ _…_ and it would be over for the rest of the evening. _Steeling herself, she tipped her head back and let the three drops fall onto her tongue, closing her mouth against the fourth.

 _Poisonous drops_.

The bile rising in her stomach like a torrent. Holding her stomach _…_ sucking in the air before she could sicken, she opened her mouth, letting the words take shape before her captors. Her eyes wide, but her vision turned inward.  _She could see. For this brief moment, she could see beyond this room. She could see the prospects of life, the memories that would and would not come._   _Her voice the conduit, and the sight passing faster than she could speak…_

"Son of the dead," she whispered. Her gaze drawn to the ceiling _._  " _…_ there is light upon your shoulders." Her voice cutting through the air, pouring the words forth like blood from an open wound. "Light from a wolf's tooth. A deer's antler. A pair of eyes blackened by the winter sun. Night falling into a path across land…across water…entering a tower, your fingers on wood…on stone…on iron but there are four of them, not three."

And then she shuddered. Clutching at her dress, tearing her nails into the wool, she cried out."All their eyes will be blackened by fire."  _She could feel it. Heat. So much heat._  "And though all will stumble _…_ " Her throat grew hoarse. " _…_ only one shall f-fall."

The fiery vision drifting on poisonous waters _. The vision ended, but the pain only starting. The sickness _…_ the cramps that gripped her side._ Her form unsteady, swaying as she tried to stay conscious for a while longer. Her hand reaching out to the twisted masks of these demons hiding beneath the ground _. Their eyes judging her by her visions. By her blood._ For a moment, she thought they were the Stallos, the creatures of the underworld…and hazily, she reached out to them _…_ but before she could speak, she lost her balance. Eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her skull hitting the floor as she fell. _The lone pawn surrounded by an army of dogs…with their king watching from afar._

_o _…_ o _…_ o_

_Meanwhile _…__

Eight hundred miles away, deep below the port of Tilbury, far beyond the hearing of dogs, the vampire Kolya perched on an old, battered butcher's table, the kind once used for slaughtering pigs. The stain running so deep into the grain that if he dreamed, he could almost hear them squealing. Crying out for mercy like the old woman whose hands were chained to the wall behind him.

_She thought he was the devil, snatching her from the poor-house, biting her neck and then making her drink blood_ __;_ and he had said nothing to the contrary, for_ _there were times in the dream that he believed it to be true. So many consciences in his blood. So many memories that he could barely remember his real name, let alone the three aliases he had taken. Nikolai_ __…_ the angel. Kolya _…__ _the dreamer. Hrafn _ _…__ the raven of the North.  
_

Mesmerised by the photograph in his hand, he could barely hear the old woman weeping.  _She was weeping over the rough imprint of an 'H' seared into the side of her flesh. Rough, but fashioned well, given the tools he had at his disposal._  His claws long, his back curved like a raven pecking at the scraps of an evening meal. _Soon. Soon his debt would be repaid. And things would be as they had been before._ His nail running delicately along the edge of the paper, taking care not to scratch her face. _His beauty _ _…___ _his dark lady of the blood that he had waited upon for so long. The twenty years spent on Vasili's ship worth it for the singular moment that he had held her hand again…wrinkled and frail but soon to be strong._

The photograph carefully returned to his coat pocket before he straightened, resuming his work on the second body in the room, this one no longer weeping. A jerkiness in his movements as he drew a knife along the cadaver's neck, draining the body of blood as the old woman fainted behind him. Doing as he should have done with the first and the second bodies if not for his hunger and blood-lust. Boiling the blood down and adding it to the congealed mixture in the centre of the room. The smoke billowing up at times, adding to the scent of iron mixing with the furnaces that worked above.

 _It was a sickening mess. The blood of the oldest vampires in the city. Easy to track if not for the distillery above their heads._  Clandestinely owned by the Blackmarks, it was created specifically for the purpose of making scent cards; its location chosen primarily for the number of exiles that passed through its doors.  _All of them safe until they returned to London. Their safety leading them to believe that Tilbury was the only safe haven from the Blackmarks._  An elegant operation set up by the big one _…_ the most unlikely figure in the entire lycan Horde.

_Grace Marsden._

_The name barely conjuring up a rumour, for she was no one_. Merely a scullery-woman followed by a child that was not so much a child as a tiny animal.  _Intelligent, unable to die _…_ and even by his standards, bordering on the realm of dangerous. _They had both retreated into the shadows after the investigation started. Resuming their daily activities in the lycan-master's household, their fingers no longer pointing but washing linens. Their mutual interest in dead vampires allowing him to murder in peace, while the rest of the Blackmarks plotted Grace's revenge…

…all because her father committed suicide on the 12th of November 1844. Her gap-toothed mother left destitute with only a bastard girl and a black mark for a family name. The girl growing up strong only to watch her mother die of cholera. And then, forty-eight years later, her husband in the midst of a lycan raid. Only natural then that a poor bastard's hate might centre on the one who had started it all.  _Only natural that she would blame Mr. Itzhak for every catastrophe that had befallen the house of Finnegan._

_Or so they said._

Still, he could not afford to wait for their fears of investigation to subside, so he had sought the help of others to continue his work in private. _No longer killing the whores of Exile's Quarter, but the immigrants of the port. Enlisting the help of Ewan, the vampire of Tilbury—once an old friend, but now married to his dog-wife, Gwen. Of all the exiles, he was the most tolerated. The only port-master allowed to trade with the exiles, helping them leave the country once their time in Exile's Quarter was complete. Most of them ending up in the Americas, but of late, the oldest of them finding their way into a tunnel. A long dark road leading them to one who did not hesitate to slit a throat. Or an eye. Or a mouth.  
_

Before him, the congealed blood sputtered, seeming to cough a layer of dust as he poured a few more drops of the new onto the old. It would be boiled down yet again until he could scrape a few drops from the bottom and add it to the small whisky flask always carried on his person. _If any had taken notice, they might have seen that though he carried it, he never drank from it _ _ _…___ and the closest he came to losing it was in the Parisian Exile's Quarter. His belongings confiscated until Mr. Itzhak had intervened._

If they had asked him at the wrong time, he might have revealed to them quite happily that his whisky flask contained the life-memories of eighty-seven vampires over the age of two hundred, murdered over the course of twenty years _.  
_

_As it so happened, they did not ask._

The further truth being that after carrying it for so long, even  _he_  would have thought twice before consuming it _…_ but a promise was a promise _…_ and twenty years ago, he had made one to the blood-seer who now called herself Reinette.  _ _Help her heal. Find and feed her the blood that she needed. And above all, for a half year, be loyal to Mr. Itzhak_ … _to Lucian._  All these things he had done_…

…but in twenty years, he had found no blood-seers. Her people were gone. So he had found a substitute.  _All vampires. Any that he could find…any that might be old enough to waken her veins. The obsession growing until the point that whenever he killed, he was sure that whatever sins he had committed, whatever evils he had done in the past, he had done for the sake of that promise.  
_

 _For she belonged to him._ _She was his creature, branded for his household _…_ and though she had fled many times from him, he owed her a great debt_ _; and for that, he would do everything in his power to keep her safe_   _in his clutches_.  _First the silver key to draw her from her cage_ _…then the blood of her people to fix her wings…_ _and then _…__ _just as they had fled the Northern coven, they would flee from this place. Back to the cold and the ice…_

_…back to the North where they belonged._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference Note: We are using descriptive notation for the chess terms, rather than algebraic since it is likely that Reinette would be more comfortable with the former over the latter.
> 
> * Note: If you are curious about these subtle threads, see chapters 15, 21, 23 (first mention of Tilbury), 25, 26 (first mention of the Blackmarks), 30 (first mention of Grace Marsden), 31 (first mention of the name Finnegan), 33, 37, 41 (first mention of a distillery), and 45 (where we left off regarding the investigation of the Blackmarks); also please remember that Kolya not only has the capacity to lie, but also to change his personality as he sees fit.


	49. The Coming of Hrafn

**Chapter XLIX: The Coming of Hrafn**

_Twenty-four hours later_ _…_

It was the last day of the Gathering, the eighteenth day of April 1900. An auspicious day for it was the day after the Lycan Council had successfully orchestrated two of the greatest merges since the mid-eighteenth century. The Northern merge…and the unification of France. The first having much to do with man-power, and the second having all to do with history. The first time that the entire French line could stand together since the revolution. A day when Auguste could join hands with Benoit, their partnership poised to build a greater France, a feat that could never have occurred without the backing of the entire lycan council.  _Even Monaco was celebrating at this point._

The optimism of that vote, the sense that they were making great changes to their horde, drawing them back to this room with an eagerness that verged on zeal. A desire to vote on matters relating to the coven.  _The progress of Kraven. The assassination of Amelia._  An eagerness to change the world on this final day of council. The nine of them seated at a table of twelve…and the thirteenth chair, the one at their head, mysteriously remaining empty. The gong remaining unsounded. The table covered in the rarest of meats and blood, an entire suckling pig commanding their attention, while every golden plate and glass went unused, like soldiers without a purpose.

For it was not polite to eat before the opening gong had been struck. The nine lycans at times yawning, stretching, but as a whole, refusing to remove their masks, their faces hidden from each other, for again…it was not polite unless the lycan-master had done it first. His absence holding much of their interest, despite their thoughts continuing to merge on a single issue. That which ought to have been France, if not for that second smaller issue which had been so recently paraded before their judgment. An issue that could easily be solved as soon as the gong was struck. For the majority of them had smelled her scent, the majority had seen her gift…and the majority of them were troubled by what they saw.

For there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she was a problem.  _Her scent a little too brash. Her history spattered with holes. Her existence as incontrovertible as a white-speckled dodo stepping out of a painted menagerie_. She was an unnatural creature that should not be, and yet it was not her ancient gift but the rumours surrounding her patron that kept her critics silent. All manner of charges laid on the council table as to why they should silence her voice permanently and yet none of them voiced for they—the nine members of the Lycan Council of Twelve that had actually arrived on time—had yet to broach the topic.  _For they had been seated in the Horde Chambers for approximately twenty minutes now_ _…_

_…still_ _waiting for the lycan-master._

One who… _confused_ …them.  _His scent rarely unmasked. His history marred by war. His existence as sharp as it was strange; for there was no doubt in anyone_ _'_ _s mind that he had become especially strange in the past two centuries. His arrivals were late. He did not sit when he ought. He hardly stayed long enough to warrant a meeting, and yet_ _…_ _they followed him. They feared him._ They failed to understand his kindness…for it was an arbitrary thing. Stories of his cruelty leading them to think twice before receiving or refusing his impulses—kind or otherwise. Think twice before threatening the things that he favoured.  _For his mind no longer worked in a way that others_ _'_ _did._

His fellow pack-leaders bowing their heads, scraping the ground with their smiles; wondering in turn whether the one next to them could fully appreciate why no one else dared overthrow him. _Their reasons formed of a hundred twists and turns, their most recent centring on a very specific knot_ _…_

_…_ _that final meeting with the Blackmarks._

Almost fifty years ago. The last time anyone had directly threatened his power. The meeting with Xristo's messenger ending in an uproar as the meeting proved itself a trick; the messenger suddenly growling words of revolution while holding a silver knife to another lycan's neck—a trusted advisor, a creature favoured by the lycan-master. The follower threatening to slice open the man's gullet…threatening to kill if certain traitorous parties were not immediately released from their cells…

…and of course.

Of course, they had all… _expected_ …some form of reaction. Some form of retaliation from the lycan-master.  _Needless to say, some of their number were surprised_. The lycan-master remaining in his seat, watching the situation with a sharp eye and then very calmly, raising his weapon and firing a single shot between the eyes of his advisor.  _All of them assuming he had used lead rounds until they saw the dead man_ _'_ _s eyes rolling into the back of his head._

The lycan-master now aiming the same firearm, filled with silver as they were now  _all_  aware, at the revolutionary.  _Asking the man, in the same manner that one might ask after the weather, if he feared death_. Though robbed of his victim, the revolutionary was defiant. Trembling, but defiant.

 _No,_ the man said. _He would die for the revolution. He would die for Xristo._

 _Good,_ the lycan-master had replied…and with nary another word, he shot the revolutionary between the eyes, holstered his weapon and then stalked from the room, as though the meeting had ended through natural means. It was only later that they found out the advisor—the false victim as it turned out—had been a traitor the entire time.  _A fact that some swore that he must have known, while others_ _…_ _were not so sure. Still_ _…_

_…_ _as a council, it gave them another reason to wait._

_o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_

_Meanwhile..._

Eight hundred miles away and ignorant of any council meetings beyond the channel, Nikolai Proshkov Andreev stepped along the edges of an abandoned line of tracks, keeping his eyes on the shadows and his hand clutched around a tarnished key in his pocket. His heart and his mind staying close to the old photograph in his waistcoat.  _These days_ _he carried it everywhere. _For to him, fate was stronger than choice…and she was fated to return to him, regardless of any danger she might find herself in._ A beacon of hope. A reminder that his lady would soon be at his side. For he had worked tirelessly in the past four months_ _…_ _and now everything was ready. The blood. The dynamite._ _Their escape._

The only thing left was to give her the key. The silver key she had given him all those years ago. The one that would bring her back to his side _._ He could hear her voice in his ear. Her lips touching his throat on that final night.  _'_ _Bring me the key and I will come,_ _'_ _she had told him._ _'_ _I will come back to you._ _'_  Such comfort to be had in those words. His back weighed down by the canvas bag. His meeting with Grace occurring on neutral ground now that the Blackmarks were laying low.  _He needed only one thing from her now_ _…_

_…_ _access to the London den._

He could see her as he passed her hiding place.  _Grace Marsden. The Big One_. Crouching on one of the overhead brackets, her chin sagging and her face puckering like an ugly newborn. She dropped behind him. Her landing as clumsy as a pig rolling in mud. "Andreev."

He turned as though she had startled him. Putting a hand to his chest, smiling with teeth that started to draw near. "Please," he said too loudly for her comfort. Trying to touch her shoulder like a dear friend. "Please for you to call me Kolya, yes?"

"I'll be callin' you dead if you don't lower your voice," she hissed, taking several steps back from his hand…and then looking over her shoulder.  _A neutral ground was not necessarily a safe ground for either party. No mistaking the Little One_ _'_ _s absence for Grace feared for the young one_ _'_ _s life._ She waved a hand for him to move quickly. "You have it?"

"Da," he said, pulling the stained canvas sack from his shoulder. "You are asking for exile with many goods…I am thinking, yes…I do this for you." He unwound the string, drawing the canvas sack open so she could peer inside.  _He had cauterised the stump of her neck so the bloodscent would not follow._

She grimaced, taking a step back. "Bloods have mercy, Andreev, I never told you to bring me her  _head_ ," she said. "Just the fokin' goods."

"Not head?"

" _No_ ," she said, this time throwing up the hand like he was proving himself a nuisance in the scullery. "I point. You kill. We clean up…and  _you_  bring me the silver."

_Silver._

_The crux of the matter. The question of why a pack of traitorous lycans would allow a brain-addled vampire to kill on their behalf. Why Grace had been so adamant that he be the one to search the bodies for money. Such a simple question_ _…_

_…and his_ _curiosity satisfied by a simple answer._

Something Sarah Henderson had told him the night he comforted her over the death of her friend.  _'_ _The only way to keep yourself floating in a river of lycan thieves is to build a raft of silver._ _'_  And then she had shown him her stash.  _A removable slat in the floorboards and a small mountain of wealth underneath. Coins, cups, jewellery_ _…_ _everything that she and Mary had been saving for almost a hundred years._

_All silver._

How else could an exile save when the quartermaster was a thief? Cornering them, putting his hands where they were no wanted, looking for goods wherever he could find them. But not silver. The quartermaster never touched their silver…and as long as they could get it back to their hiding place, they could save it. _The one benefit of to being an exile living under den authority: any lycan caught with silver burns on his fingers was breaking a rule of Curfew and Safety._

Nikolai Proshkov Andreev looked inside the sack with a frown and then closed it with a simple sigh as though he could not understand why this cauterised head was not what she wanted. "I give you head. You give key to exile in den…" He shrugged as though this has been part of the deal all along. "…you have silver in return. It is good."

"No, Andreev, it is  _not_  good." She pushed him with the butt of her hand. "They're not  _in_  the den right now. They don't get back for five days."

"Still good." He brushed off her protest. "You give key to exile in  _five_  days."

She shook her head. "You're  _mad_ , Andreev."

"Not mad." Raising his hand for her to wait, he reached into his pocket, pulling the silver key from beside the photograph and holding it up for her to see. "This is  _key_. You give key to exile. You have silver in return." He nodded, trying to make her see his point so he would not have to kill her in this tunnel. "It is good, yes?"

She stared at him, her face scarred and sullen.  _She had no idea what else was in his pocket._ Finally, she spat on the ground. Scratching her chin as though she were considering. "I can't touch that."

"I have bag." He reached into his pocket and brought out the small handkerchief, depositing the key in the centre and then tying it up tight with a series of knots. Particular knots. "You leave this for her. You give her message from me…"

She shot back her answer like a pug barking at its owner. "I can leave the key, Andreev, but there ain't no message in this deal…"

"Please …" He was trying to be firm without snapping her neck. "…please to be telling her that Hrafn is  _friend_. That Hrafn will come for her when the sun is down…" He smiled, trying to explain so that she would see. "…that he will  _give_  her what she needs to heal."

It was the name that did it.  _Hrafn._ Grace staring at him…and then upended her jaw, throwing her head back and forth with a laugh. Jeering at the strange name she could not pronounce. "Hh-rra-ap," she said with a filthy sneer. "Who the fock is  _Hh-rrr-ap?_ "

His hand shot out.  _The dream evaporating for a split second; no longer the sweet eyes of Kolya the dreamer, but the blackened pupils of one who had no heart._ Only blood in his voice, blood from the countless souls he had murdered for the sake of his dark lady.

"You will tell her," he said in the Big One's ear, running one of his nails along the crease of her eyelid. "…that Hrafn is coming…" He tightened his grip around her neck, translating the name, so she would be able to say it. "… _Raven_ …is coming for her in five days when the sun goes down." His English had become perfect. His shoulders no longer lanky and awkward but menacing. "…and if this is not done  _exactly_  as I have instructed you, Grace…then I will strip your Little One of her skin and I will make you wear it on the day that I kill you."

Grace was struggling for air. Trying to get a handle on his nails.  _She was not answering. But she had no air_ _…_ _and without air, she could not bring the silver key to the bloodseer._   _She could not give him the right answer._

He released her suddenly. Her and the darkness beneath his skin, letting them both fall to the side of the tracks. _His eyes sweet again as he looked down upon her._ The stout woman scrabbling back on her stomach, rubbing her throat as she stared up at him in pure terror. The small bottle of paraffin oil out of his pocket and in his hand. The combustible liquid splashed across her face and body before she could move.  _Ready to light. Ready to burn if she did not do as he told her._

"You will do this," he said, lighting a match.

"Okay,  _okay_ …" She barked. Her eyes wide. Her body trembling against the side of the tunnel. Holding her hands to her head…weeping until he blew out the match.  _He knew there would be consequences to having shown her what lay beneath the dream. That however he might threaten_ _…_ _however much she feared him, this animal would retaliate. But she would not have time to; because in five days, he would put her down before she could bite_ _…_

_…_ _and he would be gone before the Blackmarks could hunt him._

"It is good," he said with a menacing smile, abruptly turning the canvas bag on its end, letting the cauterised head drop at her feet. Watching her recoil… _seeing how little of murder she had in her blood. Wondering if her followers knew that she was a coward. A pug masquerading as a killer._

He knelt down to pat her cheek once before turning on his heel, creeping back the way he had come. Smiling with his long teeth and dreaming of what would happen in five days _. This would be the last time he saw Grace before he would dream of her death._   _And then he would be with his dark lady again. Only five days before they were together. A ship to take them north and a necklace of tendons to decorate her throat._

_How he longed for that day._

o…o…o

_Crash!_

Reinette sat up. Awakened by a sound of which she could make no sense. She could have sworn she heard something, yet it seemed farther away than she had first thought. Like a plate being dropped several floors above her. Estranged, she lay back on her pillow, growing increasingly aware of herself.  _There was something wrong._  Her eyes wide as she stared at the ceiling, wanting to cling to the stone wall beside her…wanting to search for the nightmare.  _She had been dreaming,_ she realised.  _Running through a deep forest, her lungs tearing themselves in her haste. Wolves loping in the dark, howling in their pursuit. Her last moments filled with dread as a giant, thunderous beast rose up before her_ _…_ _his eyes silver. His teeth drawn back in a snarl that promised to tear the skin from her bones. His fur black as a moonless night._

 _It had been Lucian._   _She was sure of it._ Her hands shivering as she tried to warm her palms, blowing on them as her mother had once taught her. The pitch-black of the room doing little to calm that fear. That sense that any moment, he would creep out of the dark and tear through her throat. The bed giving little comfort beyond the inch of straw between her back and the slats beneath. _The nausea from the past days already fading, but her mind still sickened by her last waking memory. Standing in that room, surrounded by those_ _…_ _pitiless dogs_ _…_

_And then she saw it._

Silver eyes in the dark. A hooded figure standing at the foot of her bed, watching her movements. The shoulders massive, the head almost reaching the ceiling.  _It could not be a woman_ _…_ _and yet there was no guarantee that it was a man_. The wooden mask of a lycan Elder covering the features like a giant stag on its hind legs.

"Who are you," she whispered.

 _She wanted to believe it was Lucian. That this was some trick, some ruse to make her say something incriminating._ But the figure did not answer. As though there were a thick veil of silence covering its shoulders; like death walking with its vengeful scythe in hand…

 _…_ _but she could not die like this._ Her mind working desperately, trying to find some strategy for protecting herself.  _She could not fight. The figure could kill her before she screamed_ _…_ _but_ _there were rules to this nightmare. She might be a stranger to his world_ _…_ _but as long as her petition was under the council_ _'_ _s watch, any lycan threatening her person could be convicted of attempted manslaughter. He had promised her.  
_

"What is the meaning of this?" And then holding the sheets to her chest, she hissed, breathing the words quickly before he could strike. "I am an exile under the council's watch, lycan, so  _think_ before you lay a finger on me…"

The ominous silence evaporating as the figure broke into a growling laugh. He, for it had to be a man, spoke with a grudging approval. "I see you have learned some of our ways."

Her eyes widened.  _He was speaking Old Norse. Perfectly._ Her tongue picking up her father's language as if she had spoken it yesterday. The blanket thrown aside as she crawled forward to the edge of the bed.  _Pulling herself closer to danger, but knowing it would not matter if he chose to kill her._  " _How_  do you know that tongue?"

He sounded amused by the hostility in her question. "You think you're the only one to spring from the North, woman?" His voice rumbling like an avalanche. "…and you may call me a 'friend of an ally.'"

"He is  _not_  my ally."

"So explain to me why he is fighting a legion of wolves to save your throat." He was circling the bed. His face hidden by his hood. "It is not like him, you know?"

"Why do you tell me this?"

"Because in the North, truth begets truth…" He had to be at least two feet taller than her when standing. But he seemed to grow as he leaned forward to place a small wooden rune by the side of her bed. "…and I am here to tell you that there are  _not_  enough votes to save your neck today. He only  _thinks_  there are."

She felt her jaw tighten. "Then to hell with you."

The mask began to laugh. "Spoken like a true Norsewoman," he said. And for the first time, she realised what kind of mask it was. The smile carved into the mouth. Like the giant Skrymir tricking the food from under Thor's nose. "…but your head will be cut off tomorrow. We'll see if you keep your courage  _then_."

The words echoing in her ears as the ghoulish figure gathered his great mantle and slipped away without a sound. The door shutting in his wake, leaving her alone in her bed. Gripping the coarse blanket and staring at the wall across from her.  _There was a sound in her throat. Trying to get out._ Everything moving slowly as she began to wonder if she had dreamt it.  _All of it. The nightmare. The giant standing at the foot of her bed. The seven months she had spent in this world_ _…_

An hour later, when Rena brought her food, she was still sitting in her bed. Her fists curled. Her nails sharp as a blade. Her lips unable to move as the woman asked if she was ill. She felt her head shake. And then to her sorrow, she heard the woman ask where the small wooden rune had come from.  _She did not look at the rune _. She did not need to. It was_ the Yr Rune_ _…_ _the one symbolising 'yew' to the Nordic people. Protector of spirits. Ward against evil.  
_

 _For she knew it was not a dream now._ She had not imagined his presence…and the ones who meant her harm  _were_  going to execute her in the morning. Still unable to speak, she tried to answer…and then before a word could escape her throat, she found herself sobbing into her hands. The sound becoming ragged.  _Weak. Hopeless._   _She had believed him. He had…promised_ _…_

_…_ _and she had believed him._

The sobs growing quicker. The breath moving faster. But for Rena _,_ it went on for an age for the sobs and the breath were something she understood. The vampire crying her eyes out…seeming to have spent her tears only to start again. And for what seemed an age, Rena watched the vampire…and then cautiously, before the numbness could change her mind, Rena stepped forward and sat on the edge of her charge's bed, reaching her hand out like a line of rope. Feeling as the Blood took hold of her fingers. Feeling the woman grasp onto her hand as though it were the only port in a raging sea of serpents.

And although she could not change her expression, for there were limits even for her, Rena stayed where she was…and then finally laid her hand on the curve of her charge's head. Stroking the silver hairs until the sobs began to quiet down…until finally, the small bird fell asleep, cradled in her hands like the dead sons she had buried. The yellow eyes of Rena now watching the door like a hawk.  _Guarding_.

o…o…o

_Twenty minutes later_ _…_

Lucian was going out of his mind. For he was  _not_  in the council chambers, as one might expect. He was not on his way to make a final vote regarding the head of Reinette. Instead, he was biding his time. Perfectly aware that twenty minutes had passed and if he looked at his watch, he'd be another twenty minutes away from losing his vote. His occasional habit of yelling the word 'fuck' managing to go unnoticed by the majority of folk who passed by his door, for Allegra had had the decency to put him in the lowest quadrant of what had become the temporary den for the Gathering of the Horde. The torch-lit tunnels of this small lair located deep below the stage of the Vienna Court Opera House; a place where the growls of lycans could be hidden by the soaring voices of angels.

The other two occupants of this room turning towards the door, now able to pick up the footsteps of an approaching party. The battered door opening for a brief moment, allowing in the faint dulcet tones of a rehearsal going on far above their heads. Their newest visitor stepping through the door, accompanied by the sound of a mezzo-soprano opening herself to the masses with her voice _. The same tones that would soon have her murdered on the steps of an arena after her ex-lover stabbed her in the heart._

_But at least it was not Wagner._

"Magnus," he said loudly.  _He was the only person in the room to welcome their visitor._ His smile too warm to express good humour.  _For it occurred to him that he had been sitting cross-legged on this desk for twenty-six minutes now, scratching up the surface with a series of blunt nails that were starting to bleed_. "…forgive me for failing to welcome you properly, but…" He looked up with an exhale. "…in the faithful words of Ulysses' wife, where the  _fuck_  have you been?"

To the untrained ear, it might have sounded as though he were actually curious.  _But he was not_ …because if he  _had_  been curious, he might have spent the past six days wondering why one of his closest allies had been absent for the past six days of council. Why he had been forced to orchestrate two merges, one without a necessary party being present _—thank you Magnus_ , he added tersely to himself as an afterthought.

 _All of that_ …

…after finalising two dozen soldiers to be transported south— _not three_. Twelve cases of ammunition to go north— _not six_ …and a gold medal of valour for the idiot translator they had managed to find in the last minute. And to top it off, both Borya and Magnus had been absent from Reinette's viewing, which meant, according to council rules, Magnus could no longer vote on the issue. So the moment they walked into that chamber, they were going to find themselves with six votes against five…and that was including his swing vote.  _Needless to say_ _…_

_…_ _he was not pleased._

"Oh I'm sorry…" After all, it was easy for him to keep that smile stretched across his teeth after being left in the dark for almost a week _._  "…I must be talking out of my arse again." He flung the question to the room. "Did I not just ask him 'where the  _fuck_  he's been?'"

Before anyone else could speak, the Norseman raised both his hands for peace, grinning broadly at the two men and saving a wink for Allegra, before announcing a single word. "Scouting."

_The wink did not go over well._

Allegra was practically swishing her tail. Her hands poised delicately on her hips; the lady's sweet German in stark contrast to the steel in her voice. "Scouting?" she said. "To what end, Magnus, when you have already ruined  _everything_ …" She pointed at the clock.  _They had been stalling this thing for almost half an hour._  "…did you forget you were supposed to be there yesterday?"

"You'll thank me when you hear me out." Seeming tired, Magnus lowered his frame into the seat across from them. The youngest of the three pack-leaders of the North, he was a brawny man, a foot taller than the rest of the pack-leaders, his hair dusted the colour of wheat and his face chiselled from a stone. "Auguste and Goar will not vote for her."

He felt his jaw being spat out. " _What_?"

Across the room, Raze had said nothing with his voice, but was now shaking his head at the news, all-the-while making an onimous hand motion, one of the coarsest insults that one could use for another lycan. Out of all of them, only Allegra had the grace to reply properly. She looked stunned. Putting a hand to her chest. Forced to sit down.

"But  _why?_ " she asked _. They had done everything by the books this time._

_Everything._

_The key word being almost._

Magnus looked sorry to be the bearer of bad news. "It was Goar," he said. His expression did not envy the lycan. "…my sources tell me he spent  _more_  than a little time speaking to Tanis after your last visit. I think he assumed you'd tell them eventually…but when the talks ended yesterday, he decided to enlighten the rest of his peers."

_Goar._

_That_ _…_ _two-faced_ _…_ _son of an alcoholic bastard._ Something he had not expected to deal with because in truth, he had  _planned_  to tell his fellow pack-leaders. He had fully intended to sit down and explain to them that Reinette knowing his name was not a reason for an immediate death sentence. _And yet…somehow…it had never come up._  He never mentioned it.  _He skirted around the topic and finally after six days of council talks, he had chosen to believe that he might have avoided that conversation._

There was a deathly silence. _All of them absorbing the consequences of this news. That their small political war was lost. That in short, the only ones that would vote for Reinette were at that moment sitting in the room _…__

__…_ and that she would be executed._

_Come morning._

The shock of what was to come, the realisation that he could do  _nothing_  to stop it, rendering him speechless. The quiet broken only by the sound of his knife thunking into the surface of the desk. _They could not be serious_ _. Obviously Auguste was still smarting over being forced into that merge_ _…_ _and as for Goar, he was no longer sorry the man's ex-lover had just died._

"Hear me out."

Magnus stood up again, this time heading for the small plate of food that had been sitting on one of the side tables for the past hour. Plucking a piece of venison from the edge and then leaning against the wall, taking a bite before he spoke.

"Let us think for a moment…" With the gruff accent of a Norseman, it sounded as though the man had just petitioned them to drink mead in the walls of Valhalla with him. _"_ _…_ we can safely say to ourselves that Morrigan, Gustav, Dante, and the investor…" He looked at Lucian with an unrepentant expression. "…will not vote for her.  _That_  is for certain."

_The investor._

_Ha._

He gave a cynical laugh, scratching another line into his desk. What Magnus was failing to point out was 'the investor' was a single vote carried by a representative from the Lycan's Merchant Bank. They had all expected this vote to be favourable because for the past two decades, they had all grown used to seeing one Mister Edward Yarley _—one of the older accountants, thoughtful, precise and a strong believer in the lycan-master's cause._ But in the two days prior to the Gathering, Edward Yarley had confessed to being unexpectedly ill; and before a complaint could be filed, another investor had shown up to take his place…

…one Monsieur Jacques-Henri Gautier.

He would say again.  _Gautier._

The father of his most recent ex-mistress,  _Jacqueline_. The same man who had found out a year ago during an ill-fated trip to the opera that his nineteen-year-old daughter was sleeping with someone approximately seven hundred years older than  _her_ …and just under five hundred years older than  _him_.  _So in short, no…he would not be getting that vote._

For the umpteenth time, he considered stabbing himself in the eye…eventually, grunting his displeasure and then palming a hand across his forehead, trying to scrub away the brain cells that had possessed him to ever think of sleeping with the daughter of one of his investors.  _What the devil had he been thinking?_

" _Fuck_ ," he muttered to himself.  _Another swan-song._

"Can you  _stop_  saying that?" Allegra had turned on her heel, giving him a piercing look that asked him to either offer something constructive or get the hell out of this room. And by her scent, she was now precisely as uneasy as he was…which was to say, not nervous at all, because  _neither_  of them should be nervous about…

_…_ _what?_

_An exile._   _A troublesome piece of work. Not worth it. Certainly not worth losing sleep over_ _. She was just a blood. Just another exile so why the_ _…_ _fuck_ _…_ _did he keep saying 'fuck'?_

"Worst-case scenario," Magnus began.

 _Oh, were they not there already,_ Lucian wondered with grim indignation.  _Had they just not proven to themselves that Magnus was the most unreliable lycan under the sun, one who could not even be trusted to attend a council meeting?_

_And why should he?_

Magnus had not even  _met_  Reinette. Magnus had not spent the past seven months trying to get her to trust him. Trying to make her see the possibilities. Shoving her into a boudoir. Leaving her in a catacomb. Calling her a bitter…foul-mouthed…prejudiced old carrion-eater in his head.  _Talking_  to her for blood's sake.

The Norseman was still talking to his audience. His expression stating that he might be gruff, but he was happy to be of service. "…worst-case scenario, we know that Raze, Lucian…" He gave a respectful bow to his lycan-master. "…and Allegra will vote for her. But that as of yesterday, Auguste and Goar have reneged, and as you all know, I cannot vote."

"Because… _that_ …was a stroke of genius," Lucian muttered under his breath. They all looked at him. Allegra gave him a warning look, but he was more focused on the small blade he had started flipping in the past eight seconds.  _The one from his boot, the one he had told Reinette that he would only bring out during dire straits. The one he could have shown her in four decades if she had been alive to see it_. "After all…" He caught the knife. "…when the ship is sinking, what's the point in battening down the hatches? Why even  _register_  your right to vote, Magnus, when we are so clearly on the losing side?"

_Someone tried to interrupt him_ _…_

_…_ _but he was not finished. It did not matter that they had lost the vote before Magnus had arrived. It did not matter that his affair with Jacqueline might have lost them the investor's vote. It did not matter that telling the simple truth of her knowledge might have garnered her a sympathy vote._

"You want to know who  _else_  thought it was a good idea to skip yesterday's meeting?" It was a rhetorical question. _They had all seen the two empty seats._  "Borya." He started flipping the blade again, nonchalant as his voice began to rise ever so slowly in its volume. "For some reason, Borya was missing from yesterday's council meeting…and everyone knows where  _he_  was, Magnus, so for your sake, I  _hope_  you were not with him," he reflected with a sinister smile. "…because if a  _brothel_  is one of the reasons that Reinette gets her head chopped off tomorrow…" His next words were spoken with a blood-curdling growl. "…then I am  _literally_  going to castrate you before the sun rises."

 _His threat doing its work._ Magnus lunged from the wall with an unrestrained growl, but Lucian was already off the table, his feet planted and his claws out.  _He wanted to hurt something._ Ten seconds from Change, his eyes silver, and in spite of that, his claws still holding the knife. Because for once, he was  _not_  joking with Magnus and he really  _was_  going to castrate the man.  _After all, Reinette deserved a parting gift before he cut her head off, did she not?_

"Oh for bloods' sake," a steel-edged voice cried out in fury. "…can  _everyone_  just calm down for a minute?" Teeth at a point, like a golden-haired Valkyrie, Allegra had stalked between them, staring at them as though she intended to castrate both of them herself…

…and then she smiled. Her movements graceful as she placed a firm hand to each of their chests, pushing them apart like wayward children. "Now we  _listen_ …" She paused, allowing them to take in that word. "…to what Magnus has to say …" She made it sound like a very simple, very delightful thing to do on a spring morning. Something that they would all be rewarded for. "…and then as a _group_ …" Again, she paused on the word, still looking between them. "…we  _decide_  what to do. Is that not to your liking, gentlemen?"

No one said anything.

"Of course it is…" She rubbed Magnus' back and then merely hovered over Lucian's shoulder when it became apparent his hackles were rising. "Now we do this together…" She had raised both her eyebrows, still nodding between them, still trying to get them to nod along with her. "…everyone…yes?"

Raze was smelling as though he had just come up with another four dozen reasons to remarry his wife. Magnus was already grunting his apology, acting as though he had been too quick to act. _Like the simple giant that he sometimes pretended to be._ And then suddenly…it was just him. Allegra looking very specifically at just  _him_ , as though somehow, he was the problem now. "Lucian?" She was giving him that look.

_Oh right._

_Because it was always him?_

Returning a very different look, he made a hand signal to both of them, turned on his heel and returned to his position on his desk. Now using the knife to carve up the surface instead of his nails. _He was not saying a word._ He ought to just skip the execution and knife her in the back of the head. Give her a strong drink and then wait until she fell asleep. There would be no fear…and no pain…and he'd be done with it. _His mind unable to conjure what came afterwards. Why this was even bothering him. Why he was trying not to break the desk _…_ and why scratching its surface was not making him feel any better._

Allegra heaved a sigh, continuing to watch him with undisguised pity in her eyes. The type that made him want to give her the hand signal again. "Magnus," she said. Her voice one of great patience in the face of many things. "Please." She indicated the three of them as though they were all clearly of the same mind. "Tell us what you are thinking."

Magnus bowed his head once to her in thanks before he spoke. "I made an offer to Gottfrid and Thore."

Lucian jerked his head up with a narrowed eye.

_Gottfrid and Thore._

After the rebellion, when the packs had started to fester and divide, Magnus had been the only northerner to swing to his side. The other two, Gottfrid and Thore, a Swede and a Dane, had chosen to be autonomous, keeping their packs alive by hiding in holes, their lives hidden beneath snow and ice. Stubborn, they had spent the better part of three hundred years avoiding his leadership. _Their choice costing him an entire army of lycans in the sixteenth century; the enemy outnumbering his warriors three to one. He could still remember that night as though it were yesterday_ _…_

 _…_ _and yet he had been forced in the past decade to accept their grovelling._  Accept that the last decade had been hard…and that in an unprecedented turn of events, the two Northern pack-leaders were requesting a merge with the Horde, offering half of their soldiers in exchange for access to the Line.  _Hard creatures who had never learned the soft side of domestic bliss.  
_

_Blood, but he still regretted that decision._

"What  _kind_  of offer," he asked curtly.  _After all, they were being respectful to one another._

"I offered them…" Magnus took a deep breath. Looking at Raze. Conscious that he was about to say something that was clearly unwanted. "…the blood-seer."

"You did _what?_ "

There was a bite in his question.  _Like watching his kinsman steal a bone from the alpha's dinner_ _…_ _which of course, he had already done this evening._

"Now, Lucian…" Magnus kept speaking. Quickly. Before the fight started again. "…they respect your position, and she will be a permanent fixture of  _your_  den. They do not contest that…" Again, the Norseman emphasised the word 'your,' perhaps conscious that he was treading on shaky ground."…but for  _two_  years of every decade, she must travel to the North and live in their den." He raised his hands before another protest could fall. "And wait," he said. "…she can choose when to come and  _if_  to come, but for every year that she fails to show, they will add another year to the next decade until she must stay there for the whole of it. Do you see, Lucian? It is a fair deal…"

_Fair?_

"Magnus…" He put his palms together. He was trying to use my small words. "…are you telling me you just handed twenty percent of my blood-seer's life over to a den of regressive lycans who consider theft more reprehensible than murder?"

"Better than having her head chopped off…" Magnus was always trying to see the good light.  _Perhaps the only reason they could stand each other_ _'_ _s company still. The one balancing out the other._

" _Tell_  me there was a caveat regarding her treatment."

"Of course." Magnus stood tall, speaking with a confident rumble. "She is to leave in the same condition that she arrives…and that includes her physical and mental state. Any alleged crime against her person will be judged with the weight of the Council at its back. Her testimony will be taken to account…"

_He still did not like it._

"Also…" Magnus seemed to have a final trick up his sleeve. "…I will check on her. Every month. This I can promise you," he said. The final words finally helping him to feel marginally more comfortable with the concept. "…and think, Lucian. She is a Norsewoman. What  _better_  way to make her feel welcome than letting her return to the land of her birth?"

_The north._

_Her homeland.  
_

Still he continued to frown at the man's case…and then with a curt motion, he added a final scratch to the small picture he had carved into the wood.  _It resembled Magnus being staked to a rock, having his eyes pecked out by carrion eaters. Quite a work of art, if he said so himself._ "Have you signed it?"

Magnus scoffed. "Of course." Like him, the Norseman was a gambler.  _One that did not hesitate to throw a pair of dice._ From the side of his chair, he drew up the small case he had been carrying with him when he first arrived. The one they had neglected to notice in the face of dire news. The papers pulled from its interior and placed on the desk before the lycan-master.

_The majority of it already signed_ _…_

_…_ _and very little room for amendments._

He breathed…and then with an ominous feeling over his head, he signed the document. "Let it be on your head," he replied with a grunt, managing to go a solid twelve seconds before adding the necessary words. "Thank you."  _Something he rarely said to Magnus._

The Norseman waved his hand as though it were all the same to him…and then guffawed, throwing his head back. "She must be some woman, you know." And then he looked at Raze, using the same broad-sided arm to point at their infamous leader as though they were witnessing something special. "Did you see that? He was going to cut off my testicles five minutes ago…"

"Don't…push it…" Lucian pointed his knife at the man's face and then flipped the handle, letting it fall point-first into the table.  _He did not like having to sign that document. And however Magnus might joke, he had a very strong sense that in eight years, he was going to find that_ _'_ _the lady doth protest too much._ _'_

_Still_ _…_

_…_ _all the more reason to avoid telling her. At least for the first eight years._ Feeling much more content now that he had reasoned out that path, he scrubbed his forehead and then reached over to pluck his neck-tie from the chair, refashioning the knot …and then sitting back in a brooding fashion, considering his allies as they waited for him to descend his scratched-up throne.

_Despite all he had done for her. Despite everything his allies had done for him_ _…_ _the logic in his brain was telling him that this was quite possibly one of the biggest mistakes of his political life. That Gottfrid and Thore would want more from him. And that by saving the bird, he had just seized a pair of snakes_ _…_

_…_ _but who the fuck cared?_

Taken by the impulse, he got off his throne.  _Time to vote._


	50. A Sail before the Winds

**Chapter L: A Sail before the Winds**

_Forty-eight minutes later._

It was over. The final vote cast amid a tumultuous uproar as the fists of a shallow minority pounded their disapproval upon a battered oak table. _The scene encapsulated by that most apt of immortal sayings: if vampires must choose one way, then lycans will choose another._ Like comparing a pallid grave to a parliamentary shouting match. The loudest opponent on their right already thundering to his feet as though the floor were still open.

"Milords and ladies of the Gathering," he began with a pompous ceremony. " _…_ I  _must_  protest." The one-eyed pack-leader of Berlin, Gustav had never had qualms about making himself or his objections heard. Raising his scarred palms to his peers, he called for silence before turning to face the one at their head. "Lycan-master, this is not some harmless exile living in a forgotten quarter," he said. "Surely his lordship can see that this is a highly suspect individual living in clear violation of the Oaths of Security Act of 1681 _…_ " He stabbed his index finger against the table. " _…_ an individual without sufficient proof of merit. One that  _must_  be executed!"

There was a chorus of 'hear, hear's.

"Et cela, sans parler de _…la…_ " Auguste was having a fit on his side of the council table, for a moment losing himself in his native tongue. " _…_ la  _Statute_  of Communal Living," he added in English.  _As though a line dividing exiles from the den was enough reason to cut off her head._

Keeping her opinions to herself, Allegra allowed her finger to grace her chin in the face of this croak of naysayers. Watching Lucian more than Gustav or Auguste. He had barely registered their address, his thumb pressing into the skin above one eye, his scent masked in a void. Having exorcised his childish demons in private, he had spent the majority of the council meeting in a morose silence.  _The kind that led most to believe he was neither listening nor cared until he occasionally raised his face and graced his council with such memorable retorts as…_

"The term 'merit,' gentlemen, is clearly defined as being at the sole discretion of this council _…_ " The pause was remiss. " _…_ and as this council has already voted, I fail to see how his lordship's perceived failure to understand a document _…_ that he  _wrote_ in 1681 _…_ holds any relevance."

The controlled nature of his tone drawing more than a few guarded smiles from their number before Magnus unabashedly started to laugh in the background. The blood from his late supper seeping down his chin and the undisguised humour draining it all-the-more fast from Gustav's face.  _The silver remaining beneath the surface for even the smallest Change was grounds for dismissal in this hall._

Gustav closed his eyes for a measure and then turned from the Norseman to the source of his gripe. "Your case rests upon a loop-hole, milord?"

"There is no 'case,' Gustav." Lucian had switched from thumbing his brow to considering the position of his thumbs in relation to his hands. "There is merely the vote," he said. " _…_ and by suggesting that my vote is in clear violation of the Oath, you are  _also_  suggesting that select members of this council have committed treason by voting in collusion with me." He put his thumbs together, raising his face to stare his opponent in the eye. "Now if  _that_  is the course of your inquiry, then I  _respectively_  advise this council to reopen the floor at once."

Allegra inhaled before it started. The tension rising by a claw. Like a chill tendril creeping its way forward as the void began to smell like death, making at least three of them look elsewhere as the rest of them waited on fair Justice to speak. Her voice taking its time for even she had an opinion.

"It is  _enough_ , Gustav," the Lady Morrigan finally said. Fair-faced and kind she once had been, but an axe had given her a crueller sense of balance than the two halves of her face combined. _"_ The floor remains closed and the voting is fair." The words might hold a grudge, but as acting chairwoman, it was her duty to let the matter rest and by her scent, she expected Gustav to do the same.

The overbearing pack-leader taking his seat with an acrimonious grunt, still muttering to his peers even as the verdict was recorded. Allegra raising her palm once before the end in a final show of hands as the Registrar added their names to the edict, giving them each a chance to sign before he filed it away with the rest of their rulings.  _The assassination of Amelia in the next year. The death of Selene if Kraven failed to give news within a month. The merge of the three great Northern packs. The merge of Auguste and Benoit._

The minutes passing as they moved from ruling to ruling—to finally remembering those who had fallen in the past year. A feat she had never been able to sustain for very long _…_

… _and of course, there would be an appeal,_  she decided.  _A strongly_ - _worded letter from Berlin. A petition or two from the Conservatives._ The worst danger presenting itself over time—for the blood-seer or Reinette as she should call her—would be watched over time. Every year of her life recorded and judged by a neutral party reporting to the Council, allowing them to determine for themselves, in time, whether she was proving herself 'useful' to the Horde.

 _She could only pray the Council would overlook that ridiculous business with the catacombs._  The thought almost causing her head to shake.  _It might have been easier if he'd just told them. For Blood knew the rest of his wagers were strange enough…and after that choking incident in Morocco, they could even chalk this one up as 'typical.'_

A voice broke the silence. "Keep to the shadows _…_ "

"Survive the war," she replied in tandem.

Their voices meek and the lycan-master already rising from his seat before most of them had raised their heads. His mask of disinterest so much in place that it would seem Thore and Gottfrid had not just made history by standing on his behalf.  _Their shoulders and heads covered in the furs of their pack despite the warmth. Like wildlings of a darker age, their faces scarred and grey; making her pity the small wives she had seen in their company._

Her assessment taking just enough time to render the seat on her left empty. The main doors of the council chambers flung open and the lycan-master's steps now retreating from their presence. The man never spending more than a minute at a Gathering once it was finished. _Always quick to move. Quick to speak. Quick to anger. Forgiveness taking him years to muster, if at all._

Her eyes watching the door for a spell before she casually leaned back in her chair, allowing her fingers to graze the silent statue on her right, signing the words quickly before any could notice _…_

For she was the nightingale that sang for silence before thunder. Her heart no longer bitter for the years they had lost, but the time they had yet to lose. The stolen moments. The years she would miss in this marriage that was not for convenience but for love. Her duties tying her to Vienna and his forcing him to leave with the morning train, returning to London as soon as possible. Taking the reins for a master who must remain behind for several days. His duties to his friend coming before any pack, any leader, and any wife.

So she signed a final warning into his palm, the tips of her fingers speaking of life and love…and above all, laudanum. _For according to her Linemaster, two cases of it had mysteriously appeared and then disappeared from the Viennese docks this morning—which meant they were either en route to London or about to be. In other words_ …

… _he is slipping._

Her husband taking the news in stride, stroking her hand once for the uphill struggle that she sought to ease, and then rising from his seat. His resolve unwavering as he followed after thunder. Their thoughts riding on the same storm, for there could be only one master of their Horde; and it was not laudanum.

_o…o…o_

_Two days later._

Whether the laudanum was found or not was of little consequence to one whose concerns rested on more immediate horrors. 'One' referring to that singular person of Reinette, who was now seated on the edge of her bed, her throat hoarse and her breathing shallow.

She had woken to the smell of vomit again. Dried blood caked over her bedding and her mind able to conjure up all manner of reasons why they would neglect her for so long. The first day spent in fear of an axe that she now longed for. Her arms clinging to her knees, trying to find skin that did not slip with perspiration.  _Would they burn her? Was that why they were taking so long? Was that why no one was speaking to her?_

 _Lucian. Rena. The faceless Norseman._ All of them staying away from her quarters as though she carried the plague. Her bathing water unchanged. Her clothes filthy. The thought making her breathe faster, causing the sweat to run down her back.  _How had she not noticed? How had she not seen that this was a prison?_ Every day passing like it was a year, making her flinch with every sound, every step. Her heart beating in time with a waking dream.

Any minute. Any second now, the door would open and it would happen. Step by step. Moment by moment. In her mind, she could see it happening as her Mentor had told her. The long walk of the execution. Her wrists tied together as they led her down a torch-lit corridor. The rusted grate above their heads showing the darkness of morning. The slow death of a rising sun.

 _The end of a thousand year old bloodseer at the hands of a ruthless beast._ And in her mind, she was sure of it now. She  _knew_  that her Mentor had spoken truth.  _That only the coven could provide the mercy of an executioner's wheel._ That the lycans would stake her outside. That they would let her burn for the length of time it took dawn to come. _The minutes it would take for the shadows to recede. The agony she would bear as the pitch of night became lighter and lighter until finally her skin turned black in the light of a full sunrise._

She could hear herself screaming in her mind. The thought becoming real as her eyes jerked towards the door. Hearing the fateful sound, the echo of footsteps approaching her room. A soft cry falling from her lips as she covered her mouth. Her hands shaking as she realised it was not a dream.  _That the end was nigh._ That there was a metal key rattling in the lock _._  The handle turning from the outside and the door swinging open on silent hinges.

Her eyes longed to see Rena. With all her might and will, she longed to see Rena.

_But it was him._

Saving and tormenting her, the one that started it all.  _He_  would be the one to tell her…that it had failed. That she would be executed. That he commiserated with her, but that it was out of his hands. Her hands now pressed to her mouth, staring at him, waiting for him to speak. Starting to weep into her palm as she waited. Desperate and silent, willing herself to see through his mask. _For what did it mean?_

The guarded stare. Like a feckless lodger entering the wrong room and then flicking his gaze around as though it offended him to have to come here. His attention resting on her for less than a moment, the time it took for him to brush off the fact that she was crying.  _That she was in a prison cell._   _The blood rancid and her eyes sleepless. All of these things his eyes rested on, and yet she was certain he saw none of them._

Her lack of movement finally prompting him to circle. His breath taking him around the room, considering the walls for the length of an age before uttering his message, one that informed her that they were leaving in ' _twenty-nine minutes,_ ' and that if she intended to travel looking like ' _that_ ,' then he was leaving her behind. This was followed by a terse exhale as though he had forgotten something and blamed her entirely for the oversight. Searching his waistcoat pockets and then flicking what appeared to be a playing card across the room. "Do not lose that."

It was an order. The man gone before she could reply. The door shutting behind him and the shock of what he had said finally hitting her.

_That._

Slowly, she lowered her palms from her mouth. Her fingers beaded with sweat.  _It could not be real. She had spent so long imagining the worst that to hear something else was to render it false._ Still, she reached forward, touching the edge of the card he had flicked onto her bed. Touching, but not taking. Staring at the card in wonder and then quickly looking back at the door, suddenly afraid that it would open. That he would return and take it from her. That it was a ruthless game from a madman without mercy.

 _But the door did not open._ And only after the silence had dragged did she let her fingers hold onto the edge of the paper, drawing it into her palms and examining its surface. The edge thicker than the one she had travelled with. The scent impossible to distinguish, but the name visible to the naked eye. The only difference revealing itself in the top right corner of the card.

_Jeanne-Antoinette…_

… _de Laroche._

 _It was a surname._  Each individual letter causing her eyes to brim as she understood its cruel meaning.  _Reinette of the rock. Reinette of the catacombs. Reinette of the monastery filled with rats. The name providing her with a reason for anger for why else would he have named her so?_ And yet reason alone could not explain the air flooding into her lungs.

Breathing for the first time in two days, the sound rising in her throat like a sail before the winds. The fear rising in her heart as she understood that it was not fear that made her cry, but relief.  _He was taking her back to his home…and she was relieved._

She wanted to go back with him. She wanted to leave the catacombs. She wanted to return to her golden cage filled with books and blood and dresses. Her hands reaching out blindly for the yew rune as she closed her eyes, whispering a prayer to the fates.  _Áris help her. Hrafn help her…for she was losing herself in this world._

o _…_ o _…_ o

_22nd of April 1900.  
_

And yet to 'lose oneself' was to imply redemption. A chance to be saved from the temptations of the soul.  _Áris forgive her, for she had fallen beyond that point._ No longer in her cell or her travelling box, but on an ocean of a bed, lounging with a cushion over her eyes, having recovered suitably enough to realise that neither fate nor fortune gave a cock's crow about her problems. _Never mind the fact that he had waited for her. That he had dropped hawk's blood into her box this time. That she had just sung for her supper and the only one who cared about it was the same person that had sedated her less than an hour ago._

_Certainly he cared…and why?_

So he could  _rip_   _off_  the cover of her box in the middle of the day and 'transport cargo.' The warm light barely registering before she realised it was a ship's chandelier rather than the sun shining down on her. The bastard already snapping his fingers, tasking her to move 'today please' so he could get started before next year.  _After all, when was it not a good idea to use her box to transport bottles of laudanum?_  And how could  _anyone_  complain when he was installing an 'entirely safe' false bottom?

The question moot for she had given up.  _She would no longer fight it. He was an addict…and as long as she was his 'prisoner', she might as well enjoy the few cursory moments she'd have before he threw her back in the catacombs._ Her sleep thrown asunder by the constant hammering. The sense that they were lost on this endless ocean. That her purpose was merely to lie here and listen to nails and numbers.

Her new scent-card initially dropped on the floor and now tied to her wrist after it became clear that she was caring less and less about details. Her thoughts meandering around his threat to nail the scent-card to her forehead. The sick part of his intellect managing to tell her off while enlightening her about the number of annual exiles that ended up dead after losing their scent-cards by accident.

_Thirty-eight._

He had then informed her that the national average was  _forty-two_ and that if she really  _cared_  to think about it, approximately  _twenty-eight_  percent of those  _forty-two_  scent-cards were reported missing on the third day of acquiring them _._ The entire speech accompanied by the tapping sound of a nail being driven into her chariot.  _As though she needed further proof of his morbidity._

"Your move."

"You  _drugged_  me."

"Reinette, I gave you  _half_  a gram," he said, taking a long draw from the smoke. "Now move."

She sighed, letting the pillow fall off her face. Raising her fingers to her lips and finding them empty. The last time she had refused to move he had flicked a nail at her.  _A rusty crooked nail. She probably had tetanus now; her body struggling to heal itself like a human. But no…never enough to just use her for the black-market. No, he wanted to be amused by her as well._

The chessboard looking hazy from where she was lying.  _One of his knights had moved._  The majority of the game kept alive by an opponent who seemed to have a keen talent for grabbing chess pieces as they rolled past him and plunking them back on their exact square of origin.  _Unless he was cheating, which she considered entirely possible._

"Pawn to Queen's four," she said after a moment, returning the cushion to her head. Her mind only half on the game and the rest trying to at least  _appear_  as though she were not swimming through whatever stupor he'd put her in. Her mind still rolling around with the sea, trying not to remember the number of times she had dissolved into a sobbing mess within the last fortnight. Once in front of Rena and once in front of him _. He had not mentioned it, but she was sure he'd use it against her later._

Her eyes spying out for the brief period in which his back was to her. His beard unkempt, his hair reaching past his shoulders as though he'd lost sight of the times. _Too straggly for good society._ The hammer abandoned, the grease-stained fingers reaching across the board, moving the piece for her. He was a beast. She could not forget that. A ruthless beast leaning over an army as he contemplated his next move.  _As though nothing had changed in the past two weeks. As though it were the exact same game. The one from two weeks ago when she still had her dignity._

 _Oh the shame,_ she moaned in her head.  _Once a proud lady of the Blood…and now an old creature sneaking looks at someone's backside from beneath a cushion._ The bitterness making her speak through the haze. "I could tell Raze."

"And I could throw you overboard _,_ so let's keep each other happy, shall we?" The threat holding very little expression, giving her the impression than regardless of whether he would or would not carry it out, he was still more concerned with making this move.

"You wouldn't dare," she said. He'd already given her enough of his personal stash that throwing her overboard would be a 'waste of resources.'

"Reinette, you'd be surprised at the things I'd dare to do after this many years." He said it without looking away from the board and then with a nod, he reached forward and shifted his knight. "Knight takes pawn. Check-mate."

_What?_

Feeling the air leave her lungs, she wrestled both the pillow and blanket off and stared at him. "Knight does  _not_  take pawn," she said. "It was not even  _close_  to pawn."  _That was not possible. She was two moves away from the win. He had to be cheating._

He shrugged. "Knight takes pawn." The hammer back in hand and the king returning to his work. "It's not an insult, woman. You play better when you're drugged."

She glared at him and then pulled herself off the bed, lowering herself to the floor and crawling over to his side of the room so she could stare at the board. Her finger finally thwacking her King over and then the rest of his pieces one by one.  _He had drugged her. She was crying and instead of listening, he had drugged her._ His use of the word 'hysterics' earlier in the evening merely adding coal to the fire.  _Which was not to say she was in the mood to boil over._

She looked up. "I was  _not_  hysterical," she said again.  _It was the second time she had declared it. Hardly a pressing point, but in the face of fate not caring, she may as well take some dignity into her grave._

"Reinette, we've talked about this _._ " He was on his back, hammering as he worked, speaking around several nails, clearly more interested in the hammer he was using than having a conversation with her.

_Fine._

_She had more interesting things to occupy her attention than his cursory answers._  She got to her feet, circling his quarters in the same manner in which he had circled her prison cell. It was the same ship from the last time. The same gilding on everything, the thick carpet, the large bed _…that she had all seen._

_And now for the rest of it._

Her inspection taking her along the right wall, opening the first drawer in a three-foot long mahogany and brass sideboard.  _Linens._ She opened the next drawer.  _Cutlery._  She peered inside the two cupboards and then shut them.  _She supposed everyone needed their share of glass and dishware, but somehow she had imagined there would be something more…interesting._

Next came the wooden chest.

A garish monstrosity at the foot of his bed. The wood blackened with time and the face scratched along the edges. Almost reverently, she knelt before it and then chanced to look to her right.  _He was not stopping her…which meant it either contained something exceptionally boring…or incredibly exciting. The still-beating hearts of his enemies. The teeth of every beast that must have defied him in the years before his demise._ Digging her fingers under both handles, she wrenched the chest open _…_ and then allowed herself to be crestfallen.

_Blankets._

She started pulling things out.  _Blankets, blankets, blankets._ She sighed and then got up, looking for something else. Trying to put the two together.  _The creature of legend…the unflinching mind of this lord that she had seen during that council meeting. Where was he?  
_

His voice came out of the box. "Can you sit down please?"

"I am  _exploring._ "

The hammering stopped. "May I remind you that your  _head_  was almost cut off two days ago?"

"I have a short memory," she replied, trailing her finger along the wall and continuing on her walk.  _It was his choice to ignore his prisoner. And as long as he was ignoring her, she was going to amuse herself._ "…can I look in the wardrobe?"

"No."

She touched the handle, looking back at him.  _She could only hope._  "Are there bones in it?"

"Bones?" He put the hammer down, giving her a look that wondered at whether he should have shared his stash with her. "…why would I put  _bones_  in a wardrobe? How does that make  _any_ sense?"

"It doesn't," she replied stubbornly. Almost to herself.  _Why would he put bones in a wardrobe? Only ruthless, insane people put bones in wardrobes…_

… _and he was not insane._

She returned to her blanket and pillow, allowing herself to drop on the bed. The hammering continuing, the ship rolling until finally she said it. "Did you know there were bagged cedar-chips in that chest?"

"That and the wardrobe." He removed one of the nails from his mouth.

She made a wordless sound.  _Ha._

_Of course he knew…_

… _next she'd find out that he knew how to do his own laundry. His own washing. Blood. He was probably the one that did the place-settings. It had been measured. He was the kind of creature that measured place-settings._

He stopped hammering for a moment. Even the exhale was sane. The look of an entirely lucid person that thought  _she_  was crazy. "Reinette _…_ it was  _half…_ a gram."

"I know," she said to the ceiling, letting her fingers walk aimlessly along her forehead. The hammering continuing after a moment, letting her meander back into her world. Her doubts. Her prejudice.

 _She would have to come to terms with it eventually. That voice of her mentor that lingered inside her mind, poisoning every word of confidence. The one that called him ruthless and wicked. The one that sowed doubt, making her wonder if he had made a ruse of the entire thing._ But it was a question that she no longer cared to answer. A voice that she was tired of hearing for her mentor was wrong. He was not insane. _Damn him for not being insane.  
_

She sniffed reproachfully and then sat up. "When does it end?"

"In about an hour for  _me_  and probably  _six_  for you." He was sorting through his toolbox. The nails going back into one compartment and the glass-paper coming out of another. "…not that I don't find it  _hilarious_ , Reinette, but you are  _not_  made for this."

"Not the  _drug_ ," she said with a sigh, letting herself fold over on herself. It truly  _was_  the most comfortable bed she had ever lain on.  _The key word being 'on' since he wasn't letting her get under the sheets._  "…when does the truce end?"

"Forty-six hours," he said, giving a quick sand to the edges, evening everything out before he righted the box. "…that gives you a night in your old quarters if you want it. Clean clothes. Full stomach. Catacombs in the morning."

"I think I want it."

"Then it's yours." He was barely paying attention to her. The final touches consisting of laying thick wool on the bottom of the box, using one of the dinner-knives to tuck in the sides. The cotton covering the wool and then the cushions. One that could speak and work without losing his rhythm.

"No, I want to…" Her eyes were starting to close. "…I want to stay upstairs."

"Mm," he said. Still working out the details, giving the surface a final once over before setting the knife on the table and rising to his feet. Scratching his neck and then turning for the commode with an inscrutable look on his face. "A conversation for  _later_ , I should think."

_Later?_

She was trying to keep her eyes open, but it was all becoming dark.  _He had been harping on her for months now and the moment she gave in, he failed to give a reaction._ Her voice trying to stay with her thoughts. "Why later?"

He was standing by the washbasin, pouring water on his hands, setting the pitcher down and then drying them on the towel. "Because memory is a fickle thing _…"_ he said. The sound of his voice moving around the bed, picking things up and putting them back in place. The chest closing on the mess she had made. "…and while your choice may be right, Reinette, the rest of you is floating on a wave of euphoria. So we will wait until you are back on the ground and then continue this conversation…" He was enunciating every word like she was a child. "…later."

"You shouldn't have drugged me."

"I know…" she heard him say through the haze.

The room starting to waver, making her dream of a giant beast picking her up, raising her up into the air and laying her gently down onto a soft berth. Her hands reaching out, trying to find all the corners and then growing confused when she realised there were only four. Her body curling up around one of the cushions, her nails growing for a split second so she could find a grip. Her head was starting to nod. "Lyosha, why did you drug me?"

"Because you needed it." His answer firm, but soft, as though he were for once in his life trying not to wake someone.  _Why was he trying not to wake someone?_

She frowned and then tried to look up. Her eyes filled with wonder as she realised where they were.  _They were outside and there was sunlight everywhere. A giant sun behind his head and the entire room filled with sunlight…and_   _he was up there. He was all the way up there._  "How did that happen," she whispered. "Why are you up there?"

For a moment, he seemed lost for words, leaning with his arms crossed over the edge of the box. Surveying her as though she were a strange mine filled with mysterious resources, a wealth which he could not quite fathom, and yet when he spoke there was a hint of a smirk on his face.  _A man that no longer cared for wealth._  "I  _live_  here."

"Oh," she said. _She thought he lived somewhere else._  His answer making her anxious all of a sudden. "Is this your home," she asked of the walls. And then she looked up at him. "How can you live in a box?"

He cocked his head as though he were surprised that she did not know the answer already. "It's simple, Reinette. You just have to pretend you're very small." It sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. _He always seemed to know everything.  
_

"But where did my rune go?" She was checking her pockets. Except there were no pockets in her dress.  _Did dresses even have pockets?_

"What rune?"

She was speaking into her hand. "The giant left it in my room. He said I was going to die."

"You're not going to die, Nette." His voice was getting farther away. "And we'll find your rune. Alright?"

"Okay," she agreed with a soft exhale, letting her head fall back down again. Her eyes starting to close. The feel of a blanket being left on her. The edge brought up to her shoulders like night falling on her face _._ The cover coming down on her box, and her awareness lost in the haze.

_The dream telling her that what she heard was actually real. That he was thunder and she was the sea. The giant currents sweeping beneath as the nails of a god crashed into her back, sending her to the depths where she belonged. His great victory causing him to laugh into the wind, as though she had amused him.  
_

_o…o…o_

_Elsewhere._

Grace Marsden was plotting. In the scullery of the London Den, she held her Little One in her arms, whispering what the madman had told her to say. Taking her little girl's hand and pressing the small rough-spun bag into her small fingers.  _The silver key inside and the madman's message written on a small note. Her instructions clear_. Leave the key and the message in the exile's room.  _Do not be seen. Do not linger or your scent will betray you._  Instructions her mother had once taught her as a child on the streets. Stealing from other lycans 'til age drew her scent too close.

Still she gave the girl a hard cuff across the head.  _Always wanting to touch silver; always wanting to hurt things. A malicious child if she ever gave birth to one_. Her small legs taking her up through the hallways and staircases that would lead to the woman's room. Not the catacombs, for they had seen Rena making preparations. Airing the bedroom out and making their lives easier.

Though Grace could only laugh for there was no way for Kolya to break into the den _._ No way for him to avoid his fate after threatening her with paraffin oil and fire. As soon as a her Little One came back from her task, she'd be on the train to Tilbury. She'd meet with the madman, she'd take his silver, and then she'd set the wolves on him. Every Blackmark in London _…_

… _and pity be on the exile if she was in the arms of this madman when it happened._


	51. A Meddling of Lycans

**Chapter LI: A Meddling of Lycans**

_22_ _nd_ _of April 1900._

It was past dusk when they arrived at the London den. The sound of wet cobblestones causing him to wake on his side of the carriage, giving some audible relief to the two grunts Raze had saddled him with. The one trying to mask the fact that two of his ribs were cracked—and the other wasting little time informing him that they had arrived. Both of them keeping a safe distance, perhaps convinced now that searching his person was neither wise nor sanctioned under  _any_  circumstances.

As the carriage stopped, he considered pulling himself up from his slouch—making an effort to walk towards this bright light they kept pushing him towards on a centennial basis—but soon thought better of it.  _Another round of cannabis after Reinette had passed out and he was still riding high on the winds._ His yawn taking in the world before he allowed himself to be 'helped' from the back by the only one who  _deserved_  to lose a finger on the back of these shenanigans _._

_Raze._

He almost tripped over the carriage step, trying to extricate himself from the iron grip. "Is this what it feels like to be under house arrest," he muttered, attempting to settle himself down beside the drainage channel before Raze again 'helped' him up.  _The man was actually being quite rough, to be honest._  The two grunts had disappeared already and the stables were empty, the horses being the only ones 'high-ranking' enough to witness the master in such a state.

_Oh and Singe._

_He couldn_ ' _t forget Singe._ The old boy was perching on one of the stools in the kitchen. His spectacles glistening as though he had spent the afternoon cleaning them just for that moment. Despite the hour, the fire was cold, the entire grounds in an apparent lock-down in preparation for the master's homecoming.  _And as luck would have it, they had brought Reinette too. Or her box rather_. The top removed, the box on its side, and the unconscious woman left to rot beside an overturned coal scuttle. As for his secret cargo of laudanum…

… _lined up on the kitchen table._

_Empty._

He finally managed to shove Raze's help off his shoulder. Using a hand to steady himself against the door frame, and then taking a breather before he removed his morning coat, allowing it to drop into the same heap of discarded rubbish that was Reinette. "Has anyone  _ever_ …" He inhaled before finishing the sentence. "…told you  _not_  to go through my personal belongings?"

Singe was looking as though he'd rather be dusting his pocket microscope. "Yes," he said with the blank expression of one who had been through this before.  _Only then, it had been alcohol._  The scientist considered and then shifted one of the empty vials an inch closer to the edge, the words weighing more than the glass. "…but cracking someone's ribs will not change the fact that there is no more laudanum in this household."

"Well then it's a  _good_  thing I'm not a  _laudanum_  addict," he shrugged, managing to lower himself onto one of the stools without incident.  _Hard to tell if his decision to mix cannabis and alcohol was helping the situation._  His words and his boot about the only thing capable of pointing at Reinette in his current state. "Are you confiscating that as well or do I get to keep  _one_  ally?"

Singe lacked the grace to look awkward. "Oh, I am sure she had less choice in this matter than yourself, Lucian…" He hesitated and then took another moment to clean his glasses. "…and of course, I am of the belief that you will forgive this…" There was a pause. "…'inconvenience', once you are cleansed of the substance of course."

_Cleansed._

_Well 'that' was new. Forty years ago, and it seemed like only yesterday that Singe was prescribing the tincture to help him sleep. Help him relax. Help him pass through the night without lashing out. One minute a simple prescription…and the next, an inconvenience to them all. Best to 'cleanse' it._

Unwilling to comment on the irony that was his existence, he placed his pocket-watch on the table and turned to look over his shoulder. "And what about you, Raze…" It was a rhetorical question meant to coincide with the disdainful removal of his waistcoat. Something which took far longer than necessary considering there were only seven buttons on the damn thing with only two of them fastened. "Any passing words of wisdom before you stab me in the back?"

Raze neither smiled in return nor spoke. But his arms were crossed. His reasons as plain as ever, the lycan forever holding onto his belief that one's life and one's duty must coincide at some point. His life dedicated to protecting the den, the horde, and the head of that horde.  _Even from himself._

Neither did it escape his notice that there were seven…no… _eight_  different scents coming from multiple directions. Two of them were siblings. Three of them were women. And if the rest were as self-righteous as Raze, the whole lot of them would pounce if he did anything rash. He could take six under the influence, but not eight…especially if one of them was Raze.

"Fine," he concurred, turning his back on the one man's beliefs and looking with unabashed scorn at the other.  _He had never promised to be perfect._ The empty vials giving him several reasons to stage a violent protest, but the unfiltered haze in his blood giving him license to relax, knowing full-well their actions would be pointless in a decade. "So how do we do this?"

_How indeed._

He could smell the distrust emanating from both of them.  _Rare the occasion when he agreed to an intervention without doing a touch more than cracking someone's ribs._  But then they  _had_  been doing this for four hundred years.  _Perhaps not a full cleansing, but certainly an intervention._  The possibility of success seeming to crop up in Raze's brain around the same moment that Singe began to intone his speech.  _Practiced, no doubt._

"You will  _submit_  to…"

He chucked the waistcoat onto the floor. "Nothing—unless you  _rethink_  that wording."

The retort earned him a withering look from Singe."'Agree' then." He sounded impatient. Eager now to get back to his laboratory, but still waiting for the obliging grunt before he continued. "You will  _agree_  to random searches of both your quarters—and your person—over the next eight months. In addition, you will be monitored for signs of withdrawal on a daily basis."

 _One would think forty years of observing his habits might have filled the man in on his situation. At the very least, he could have asked Raze_. Successful in his endeavours with the waistcoat, he now started picking at the complicated affair that was his necktie. "I do not 'withdraw', Singe. I control. So you might want to keep that in mind before you start asking me to sweat for your pleasure."

"Sweating is merely one of the initial signs, old friend." Again, the scientist had the nerve to sound as though he were talking to an idiot.  _A misinformed idiot who deserved every ounce of misfortune he was about to receive_. "…and however 'in control' you think you are…when the worst comes, I would counsel you to embrace all your symptoms rather than hide them. Work through them as you need."

"And then what?"

Singe did not flinch from the question. "Then we keep you in line." Despite being a spineless runt, he had very little patience for anyone lacking the strength to hold a path, whether it be physical or mental. "All correspondence will be approved by Raze, and at all times, you will be accompanied by a new manservant…"

He started clawing at the silk. "And what the devil is the matter with Langley?"

"He's a runt," said Singe. A blunt word coming from someone of his size, and yet lycans were not known to flinch from their pack-ranking.  _It also went without saying that Langley was not so much a manservant as a charity case._  "Even if he wanted, he could not deny you a substance request…"

"At least he doesn't  _prescribe_  them," he said acerbically, forced to be satisfied with merely loosening his necktie.

"Yes." There was a long silence as Singe continued to eye him as though he were less a lycan than a failed experiment. "You are right…and for that I apologise." He failed to look or smell apologetic. "I should have taken your history into account before prescribing an opiate."

 _And what the hell do you know about my history_ , he thought with a disgruntled scoff. The look he was giving Singe rapidly descending into a kind of treacherous miasma.  _If he could only count all the ways everyone knew his history._

_They had scrolls about his history, books about his history…even a blood-forsaken penny dreadful about his history. The kind of sentimental nonsense that ended up being passed from skirt to skirt until someone inevitably gave him a look that said he ought to quarter himself and die for daring to fuck someone other than his dead wife._

His aversion to the topic finally causing him to stab the table with his index finger, steering the conversation towards safer grounds. "Can we define manservant," he asked. "…because I feel like _that_  was important…"

"Aron."

 _Piss-drinker,_  he thought. "Is Weylan not on duty?"

Singe squinted. "Weylan will be taking on Raze's duties for the next month."

"Why?"

"Because..." For the first time, their smells became guarded. "...when the withdrawal begins, Lucian, Raze will be taking over some of  _your_  duties…" The one glanced at the other. "…at least until you are...recovered."

_Right._

_In other words, they wanted him off the Horde shift_. Not the worst predicament in which to find himself. His gaze moving from one to the other. His brain too tired to even think about beating around the bush.

"I assume I still have some choice in the matter," he said, rolling three of the empty vials over to his side of the table. "…so let's say Langley continues with his duties…" He lined them all up, one by one. "…I continue with my duties and…" He abruptly flung one of the vials at the wall, hearing it smash. "… _if_  a withdrawal starts, you get to make it Weylan _."_

Singe was unmoved, staring at where the vial had smashed. "Those are not the terms we discussed, Lucian."

He stretched his arms out on the table. "Then think of it as an order, old friend."

There was no need to elaborate. No need to threaten when patience would do, the seconds ticking away as Raze, Singe, and the eight pieces of muscle considered his offer.  _Technically he was out of cards, but they all assumed he was unpredictable enough to cause more trouble than he was worth._  Singe looking less than pleased with the negotiations, but whether by the hand signals going on behind his back or by the change in his scent, they both eventually conceded with a nod.

_Excellent._

_Home free without a scratch._ Relieved of his troubles, he made a grand, albeit grappling, attempt at getting off the stool, picked up his watch…and then aimed haphazardly towards the left, seeking his way past the copper pots, past the wooden shelves and the side-table, now intent on finding his way to his bed.  _Meeting over, fate decided, and a pox on everyone standing in his way._ He was done here.

_Or mostly done._

The problem being that he could not cross the threshold of the door without stepping over Reinette. Also known as that pile of dejected vampire that had been hastily dropped beside the coal scuttle.  _In theory, it was not the most complicated of scenarios._

 _He ought to just step over her. Walk on. Be on his way._ He had seen war, rage, brutality, atrocities beyond that which any sane individual ought to see in one lifetime. All of which communicated that what he was seeing was hardly worth his time.  _Something which ought to be tolerable to a man of his standing…_

_…and yet…_

"Incidentally…" Even under the influence, he could feel his eyes narrow. His teeth drawing back. "…the next time you open a box containing  _that_ , can you make an effort to place it on the floor rather than tossing it?" He was drugged. He was tired, and yet even  _he_  could get this right. "It's  _very_  simple. You pick her up…" He mimed the motion with both arms. "…and you put her down again. How simple is that?"

Raze appeared to grow in size. "Very."

"And yet I get the sense you're  _not_  agreeing with me," he said with a grim exhale. Catching the side of the door and leaning against the frame. "Speaking of which, do we  _both_  have to go back to prison this evening or can mine start in the morning?" he asked.  _Wary that this would perhaps be his last occasion for wearing anything resembling outdoor clothing for a very long time._

Singe indicated the ceiling with his glasses. "It could start in a month for all I know." He sounded fed up with the evening; and there was no sign of jest in his voice. "But I must warn you, Lucian; when the withdrawal begins, it  _will_  be severe. You may control the symptoms for a time, but the system will fail eventually." By his expression,  _all_  systems failed eventually. "…at which point in time, I would recommend that you confine yourself to the Change quarters."

 _And miss all this,_ he thought sarcastically. He was starting to wonder why they all still bothered.  _Weylan and Singe would take on Line duties, Raze would take on Horde duties. Between the three of them and Allegra, all their intervention had done was confirm that the ship would keep sailing without his hand on the fucking tiller._

Unfortunately, before he could express this astute observation out loud, he felt his eyes roll up into his head. The concoction in his blood sweeping him into a dreamlike fog, the likes of which he'd not experienced in several years. His last sight that of Reinette lying among the coals. Trying to reason with himself, even in that moment, trying to understand why he had saved her.  _Twenty years ago, he would have torn off her skin and staked her to the ground himself. And yet here she was._ The answer more elusive than his drugged mind could comprehend.

 _The rest of his journey passing through sound rather than sight._  The thud as he slid to the floor. The wavering scrape of claws dragged across tiles. The whisper of voices carrying him down a passageway, eventually lifting him up and over their shoulders. He heard the groan of steps sounding from below as they climbed a staircase to the empty servant's corridor. _The silence making him wonder how many servants had been restricted to their rooms until the lycan-master was safely in his quarters._

Finally, the familiar sound of his bedroom door swinging open. His boots coming off, and his shirt undone. Those around him seeming to be taking it in turns to get him out of the majority of his clothes without accidentally cutting themselves. His head suddenly dunked in water, forcing him to wake and open his eyes again. Only to see the mirror across from his bath showing a less than decent sight _._ His skin pale and shivering, his weapons confiscated, and a pint of blood practically forced down his throat so they could all congratulate each other on how loyal they all were.

Leaving him alone in the dark…

…his mind and his conscience drifting into the same storm into which he'd thrown Reinette _._ The thunder euphoric at first, making him forget for a time that he existed. His torso wrapped in sheets and blankets, blending with objects that could not think or count. He slept until the sounds which so typically intruded upon his dreams began to pull him from his slumber.  _A slammed door. A whispered voice._ _A broken glass._ His watch ticking on the far side of the room.

In his dreams, he began to see things that were not there. The floor turning into a pit of fiery coals. The walls turning into a prison cell _._  The sound of heavy rain falling on his head, pounding his eardrums like candle wax dripping onto the back of an ant.  _In such moments, he knew he was weak. Powerless._ The great lycan-master cringing into his knees, too afraid to open his eyes lest he see more than just the shadows of his past.

For hours, he lay there…

….until hours later, he heard the clock strike midnight. His eyes opened wide, suddenly filled with clarity. The effects of the drug rapidly starting to dissipate with the alcohol in his blood.A great hunger then forcing him to sit up and reach for the blood at the side of his bed, the remains of what Raze and Singe had forced him to drink.  _In truth, it had always been a quick experience for him._ _Violent and cruel in the later hours...but quick._

He rose from the bed, his mind clear and clean as he slid open the glass panes of his bedroom. Climbing out and across the wall to a window on the far side of the house. Watching and listening until the coast was clear. His stride becoming quicker as he stole behind the back of a stairwell. Vaulting over the rail and dropping silent to the ground below. Pushing himself quickly against the wall, waiting for the sentries to pass before he ducked down another corridor. His ears plotting his path, taking him from corner to corner before any could see or smell.  _It was still raining…but it was quiet now. The thunder and lightning wrapped away in the dark. No longer filling his ears with doubt._

By the time he reached his destination, he was off the main grounds, his hair plastered to his face from the run through the rain. His path hidden by water. The sentries of the main household keeping an eye on everything, but the small cottage surrounded by lilies.

The one place no one ever remembered. The one name he had never written down in a journal. Still he waited, watching his surroundings, scenting out whoever might be lying in the dark. But there was no one.  _Even Raze had forgotten about her._  An hour passing before he slipped through the backdoor, treading water across the stone floor of her hearth. The scent of the room empty save for one.

_Elizabeth Fulligan._

_The housekeeper._ She was seated by the dying coals. A thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders and her husband fast asleep in the bedroom upstairs. Her eyes closed to the past. The thirty-seven years that had come and gone since their affair, the events sweeping beneath them like the banks of that German forest overlooking the Rhine.

 _But those years were gone_. The affair was gone and she was old and he was young; and between them, there was nothing but the wooden crate beside her feet. The second of the two laudanum shipments he had sent from the Viennese docks and the only one he had expected to arrive this evening.  _Before he left for the Gathering, he had asked her to collect it from the London docks on the night of his return. Just this once. Just in case he needed it._

_…and blood, did he need it._

The laudanum before him, his need rising, but his hand reaching instead for a brass box on the mantlepiece.  _It was not laudanum that drove him to this house._ His fingers wet and stained with mud, taking up the box and seeking the latch on the bottom. A simple mechanism to open it. Three fingers on the siren and a thumb on the cliff. The box opening with a rusty click that spoke of decades, the inner fabric starting to fray around the weathered stone nestled in its centre. A stone once capable of stopping time.

 _Only the memories would not come unless he called them. Not u_ _nless he truly stopped...and hungered after them._ Like a dog driven from its master, ten years after the rebellion, he'd found himself far from home in a province along the Rhine, tasked with the burden of rebuilding his own identity. It had been a small household nestled in the German country-side, its staff made up of mortals, those who would serve and ask little of a new master.

With little to no purpose in his daily life, he'd become a ghost to the dens, pondering his own existence while Raze carried the mantle from London. Eventually taking to walking through the forest. Speaking to no one but his valet, seeking no company but his own. Until a day when he stumbled upon someone more miserable than himself, a scullery maid who'd taken it into her head to run away from her duties.  _She whose task it was to wake at the break of dawn, scouring the pots and pans, heating the water, lighting the fires…working every day, every hour until there was no light._

For a time, he held the stone in his hand and then sat in the chair to her left. Gently taking her hand up and watching the fingers as she slept. Knowing…and yet no longer knowing…the scent of her skin, that scent which had once called him like a kiss on the back of a neck.  _Letting him believe for a moment that age had not caught up with them. That she would not die in the next ten or twenty years_.

His thoughts causing him to brood over the hand. Brood that he had not been stronger, that he could not have offered her more than the death she'd receive for being mortal.

 _Friend or lover, mortals always died in the end._ And yet when she woke, it was to smile at him with light in her eye. The light already starting to grow dim, but before it could fail, she reached out…slow and old, touching his face with a tired laugh. Smoothing back the wet hair and chiding him as though he were a changeling from the forest. "Where did you come from," she asked.  _So soft that he could barely hear her._

"Just over the hill," he said with a quiet ease he'd not felt in years, holding up the weathered stone for her to see.  _Knowing she would remember their first meeting._  A time when she had been young and auburn-haired, a siren named Elisabeth Hirsch who dared to throw a stone at his head before she realised who he was.

When he heard her laugh softly, he passed the stone to her hand, knowing her movements even before she knew them herself. Watching her study all that was left of their history and then asking his question before he stopped caring about the answer. "Bess, have you known me to be content?"

As always, she was patient. "What do you mean?"

"I mean when there was no den," he said, looking into the fire. Brooding on it in the same way that a traitor could brood on his exile. "When there were no others…when it was just you and me in the forest. Would you have stayed with that person if I had not gone back to it all?"

She looked at him with a familiar frown, and then nodded slowly. The reference causing her to remember their affair for a moment in sadness and then exhale. It was the sound of mortality. The sound of death creeping up on the only human he had ever cared for. An old woman now, soon falling asleep in her chair, hardly noticing as he shifted the laudanum aside and settled down in its place. His back against her feet and the flame starting to go out.  _Even thirty-seven years later, it still felt like home._

o…o…o

_Twenty-six miles away._

Grace Marsden was screaming in her head.  _She could not understand. She was the leader of the Blackmarks. She was in charge._  She had taken the train to Tilbury to meet with the madman and take his silver. She had set her wolves on him. But he had killed them.

_All of her Blackmarks._

_Dead._

She could see them all. _The Flanagans. The Connollys. Even Caul and his sons. Anthony and Jacob._ Their bodies were still bleeding against the side of the wall. Burned, bleeding and butchered. The smoke of the distillery covering the scent of paraffin oil and urine. The loud furnace covering their screams.  _Why had no one come?_ The question making her want to weep for she no longer cared if they caught her.  _She had wanted revenge for her father. She had wanted money. She had wanted power._

_Now all she wanted was her Little One._

Her body strapped to the butcher's table and only her head capable of moving.  _She should never have tried to kill him. She knew that now. She was sorry._ _But Kolya did not understand sorry._

He was standing to the side of the table, sharpening his silver knives, speaking in Russian to the broken vampire he had brought with him.  _The vampire of Tilbury. The one married to Gwen, the lycan portmaster._ His body so close to hers that she could smell his fear. The torment in his veins as he worked in the background, doing everything that Kolya had told him. The stubs of his fingers shaking as he dressed the old Blood they had tied in the corner.

_They were like animals, creatures that had forgotten their humanity. Creatures that stared out of hollow eyes and no longer comprehended the bloodshed around them._

But she could see it. She saw the monster behind the mask. She saw his plan.  _Kolya. Andreev. Nikolai Proshkov Andreev. Hrafn. All of these names he used…and all of them hiding a monster. The worst kind of monster, the one that hid behind a smile._

"Please," Kolya said again, holding the knife to her neck so she could feel the burn. "You take us to den."

She shook her head. She could hear the knife sizzling through her flesh. She tried to back away but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.  _But she could not take them to the den._

_She could not betray her Little One._

He seemed to hear her thoughts and for a brief moment, he took away the knife. His voice so pleasant to the ear and yet so frightening to the conscious.  _"_ Where is Little One?"

She started to shake. "No." The word was a gasp coming out of her throat. "She's just a child. You leave…her…alone," she said. Trying to make him afraid. Trying to make him see that she could still Change. That she was not weak. That the silver knives he had stabbed through her legs and arms were not the reason she could not Change. "You l-leave her alone."

"How can I leave her if I am not knowing where she is," he asked, as though he were surprised she had not thought this through. His hand reaching into his pocket, bringing out the thing she dreaded most.

The match.

"So," he said, holding up the match. "I have proposition…and though I think of killing you, Grace, instead, I am saying,  _yes_ , we do business."

She was already sobbing. There was blood streaming between her eyes, but all she could see was the match. Its small head about to be set alight. The tears coursing down her cheeks, not from the pain, but from the terror.  _She did not want to do business._

"Now," he said, holding the match to the side of its box. "All I am wanting is my lady," he explained. "I have no business with den. I have no business with coven. I am not of Blackmarks…I am like…" He seemed to search for the proper English word. "…bird passing through cave." He lit the match. "I am not landing. I am not killing. I am only  _taking_  what is already belonging to  _me_. So," He made it so simple. "...you are  _taking_  me to den…and for this, I am sparing your Little One. Yes?"

She was sobbing. It was too much. The fear. The match. The smell of the paraffin oil he poured over her.  _She loved her Little One. But she did not want to die like this. Not like this._  "Please," she cried out, barely recognising the sound of the animal she had become.  _Weak. A traitor to the horde. A traitor to her Little One._ And then, "Please," she said. "I will take you."

_I will take you._

That singular admission causing the nightmare to vanish. Kolya staring down at her as though she were a worm and then smiling as he blew out the match. "It is good," he said. Turning away from the butcher's table and starting to pack his things. Silver, blood, paraffin…and dynamite. Cradling everything as much as he cradled that picture. Practically shoving it in her face so she could see his dark lady of the blood. _He was mad. And he was probably going to kill them all._

But Grace did not care anymore.  _Her life was finished. The Blackmarks were finished._

_And now all she wanted was her Little One._


	52. The Scent of Fear

**Chapter LII: The Scent of Fear**

_Back in the London Den. 23rd of April 1900._

When she woke, Reinette could feel the last moments of her dream fading from her mind.  _Snow, ice and water bearing her across the sky. The wind rushing against her palm and before her, a ship sweeping across the harbour. She had been a creature of the sea. Her wings fashioned of oak and iron, bearing her aloft until she fell from a great height. Pain burning into her side as the eyes of a great storm struck her down with fury._

She raised her neck. Her eyes adjusting to a familiar darkness. Her muscles aching as though she had been dragged across rocks and sand during her sleep. She hesitated and then reached her hand out, drawing the edge of the bed-curtain and looking beyond it to her surroundings, feeling her way with sight before touch.

_She was back._

The room just as she remembered it.  _The rosewood desk by the boarded-up window, the mahogany wardrobe in the corner, the low-backed chairs fit for a lady of the times._ Someone had removed the travelling box, but she could see the edges where it had sat upon the carpet.  _Even the carpet was familiar to her. Green with a pattern of tulips and lilies._  Her books stacked on the desk and beside them, a more ominous leaving: a single blanket and a pair of woolen breeches folded over a matching shirt.  _All of it worn and grey, showing the holes from when she had crawled upon the ground. Clothing suited to a poverty-stricken miner, a creature of the earth._

Reluctantly, she looked down at her chest, the soft linen that she wore, and then pushed the blankets back, touching her toes to the thick carpet and walking to the wardrobe. Pulling the doors open and staring at the clothing within. _The skirts and dresses, the long coat they had given her in Vienna_ …

She had been allowed to wear it all during the truce; but it had felt wrong to wear the newest one. The one Allegra had been working on in the two weeks before he sent her to the catacombs. The blood-red silk embroidered up to the neck, the black threads keeping her modesty, while letting the tailoring to do its work.  _Giving her the appearance of an upper-class woman whose path had never strayed. A lady of wealth, one whose friends were powerful and whose worries were few._

She touched the fabric and then closed the wardrobe, resting her back against the doors. Touching her fingers to her hair and holding the silver strands in front of her.  _Trying to remember why she hated him. Why she feared her own future; the fate that might occur if she stayed in this place._

For a moment, longing for the drug that he had given her on his ship. The ease with which she had been able to make her decision.  _Stubbornness now telling her to ready herself for the catacombs. Ready herself to spend the rest of the year surrounded by rocks and rats. Reinette of the rock crawling about in the dark. Soon to be dead, soon to be burned or caught or eaten._ Such an obvious choice and yet she could not make it.

 _Fool,_ she thought.

Half expecting to feel another dream-like slap of propriety from her Mentor—and then, by chance, bearing witness to something entirely real.  _Not a slap._  But the sight of a folded piece of paper being slipped under her door followed by the tiny pitter-patter of feet running away. So soft that within seconds they were inaudible. Like a ghost touching its toes to the ground for the briefest of seconds before fading into the corridor.

_A note._

She circled the paper, hesitating to pick it up. Remembering the stolen pendant and the thief without a scent.  _For it was not like Sabine to behave in this manner._  Her brief meetings with the child enough to expect a bold announcement rather than a written message. Her memories of the Norseman's warning making her wary.  _Was something about to happen? Was someone trying to warn her?_

Unable to contain herself, she crouched down, retrieving the note and hastily unfolding it.  _The letters written in a very coarse hand. The words making little sense. And yet after months of trying to learn this foul tongue, she could at least recognise it for what it was. English. But why would they write in English_? Her confusion taking her to the desk where she opened the giant tome that had been the bane of her existence for so many months. Translating the note word by word until she had it fleshed out in her mind.

" _Top drawer beside bed. Burn note."_

Again she hesitated.  _It could be a trap._

 _And yet if they wanted to kill her, there were easier ways. Certainly without the use of a note._ She turned, hastening back across the carpet and kneeling before the bedside table. Opening the drawer and removing its contents, being careful to look before she touched.  _A lone stocking. Parchment. Ink. The Count of Monte Cristo._

Finding nothing of consequence, she reached her hand deeper into the hole where the drawer had been, stretching her fingers as far as they could reach. Running her hand across wood and then gripping…canvas.  _A small portion of her mind telling her to use caution. Telling her to think before she acted. But she could not wait._

With an eye to the door, she took hold of the canvas and yanked it back towards her. Now staring at the prize between her fingers. A small note, almost identical to the first…and a roughspun bag tied with twine. And yet it was not the bag that captivated her, but the twine. The three knots holding the bag tight.

 _Three knots._ The words crossing her mind, recited in the language of her birth. The memory of her mother, weighed down before the birth of her brother, and yet spinning before the coals. Drawing her close to teach her how to spin a special knot. Showing her the thread moving this way and that.  _The first brings the breeze._   _The second brings the wind_ … _and the third brings the storm._

_It was a Sámi wind knot._

_Her mother's knot._

Desperately, she clawed the twine apart, forgetting the note, hardly caring if it was a warning.  _Only someone from her past could have tied these knots. Someone she trusted; for who else could have learned this knot?_ As though by the hands of another, she saw the knots untied and the canvas bag lying before her on the carpet. Her neck growing tight as she saw what it contained.

A key.

Tarnished and made of silver. _An impossible thing for she knew this key. She had seen this key in her dream. The night she had remembered Aris for the first time, she had seen this key beside the bronze mirror and the wooden box._ Her neck quickly turning to look behind her. Wary that this was the same moment in the dream when Aris had struck her across the cheek. _But there was no one here._ She was alone in her room…in the heart of a lycan den. _How could this key be here?_

Trying to understand, she reached for the second note. Squinting at it. The letters starting to blend with themselves; as though a drug were causing her to hallucinate. The thought crossing her mind that perhaps she was being tricked.  _For the note was in English again_.

Starting to grow indignant, she rose from her knees and again sought out the giant tome on her desk. _The New and Complete English-Russian Dictionary by A. Alexandrow. Published in London, 1884._ The words translated quickly and then again, so that she could be sure.  _'Raven.'_  meaning the bird. ' _Is'…_ meaning 'to be.' _' Coming.'_  Signifying an arrival or an approach. Something that would happen at  _'Sunset.'_

" _Raven is coming at sunset._ "

_Raven?_

Confused, she considered the word.  _Raven._  Its meaning.  _The bird of Odin, its plumage black, its beak filled with carrion._  Its syllables.  _Ray-ven._  Sounding the word out in English.  _She didn't know any_ …

Suddenly, her breath began to move faster.  _Raven._   _Raven meaning 'Corvus' in Latin. Corvus meaning 'Hrafn' in Old Norse_ … _'Hrafn' meaning…_ Before she could finish the thought, the note started to shake between her fingers…and then with a soft cry, almost a moan of fear, she hurried to the firegrate, kneeling in front of it. Desperately shoving the bag and the two pieces of paper into the recess and using the iron to push them deep beneath the coals until they were burnt to ashes. Tears running down her face for a reason that she could neither explain nor remember.

 _Hrafn_.

 _He was not here._ The panic starting to rise in her stomach.  _He could not be here._ And yet she had prayed to him for salvation. Almost mindlessly, she had begged the fates to help her; to save her from the clutches of these lycans…

...so why was she afraid?

 _Petrified even_. Her hand reaching to her side, pulling the chemise up and finding the brand. Turning her head the one way and then the other so that she could see it.  _The H burned into her side._ She had become so used to the aberration that she had almost forgotten its meaning.

_Slave._

She was a creature of Hrafn. The thought making her sick for she could not even remember his face. Or his voice. Only that she must go back to him.  _She must be silent_ … _and when he came for her…_

… _she must follow him._

The thought ingrained in her blood…for she knew she had done this before. That she had fled from him…and that every time she had fled, he had found a way to take her back.  _Killing any in his path, stealing her back from the ones who had harboured her. Even now she could still see their necks. Eight of them left through the night, their legs swaying in the breeze_.  _For it was only now that she remembered…_

 _The English had only betrayed them. But it was Hrafn who killed them_. The noose closing in as she rose to her feet and walked unsteadily towards the bed. Trying to sit on the edge and then sliding down to the carpet.

_She was trapped._

Time passing in a daze as she wandered about the room. Leaving her chemise on the floor and stepping into her undergarments. Buttoning one of the mourning dresses up to her neck and finding her veil. The Norseman's rune found in the toilette-room and placed in her corset. The silver key placed on the sole of one of her boots before she wore it. Returning the drawer to its hole and turning towards the desk.  _Ready for his coming. For the card Fate had dealt her…_

…only to hear another knock on the door. The second intrusion of the night, only this time followed by her name.

_o…o…o_

_Reinette._

It sounded like a chime.

 _But it was not her name. Even though it was all she could remember, it was not her name._ Keeping her back to the door, she breathed in. Calming her breath, reining her fears before she spoke up. Hearing the key rattle in the lock and the door swinging on its hinges. Her eyes chained to the floor, her fingers lacing up the boots rather than looking behind her.

 _For she was not afraid._ Her hand would not shake. Her resolve would not change.  _Her path chosen by fate for she had no choice in this matter. The words passing through her mind like a mantra. She was a bloodseer. A creature of Hrafn and when he came for her, she would follow him._

When she turned, he was already sitting in one of the chairs. His clothing suited to a dinner that had come and gone. The only rough portion of his exterior occurring above his neck. The beard still unkempt and the hair begging for a cut. The eyes reflecting the fire for what seemed like an age; and then looking in her direction. Almost placid in his manner, using two of his fingers to make an aimless gesture across the side of his face like an arc passing over a winter sun. "I thought you got rid of that."

"What?"

"The veil."

She tried to speak.  _To say something. To warn him._ Instead, she shook her head. Adjusting her dress before she leaned against the wardrobe, choosing to stand rather than take the chair across from him.  _Waiting for him to say something else._

The grey pupils seeming to study her, as though he knew something was out of place.  _Her appearance the same. Her manner exactly as it should have been, and yet somehow, he could sense something was different._   _As though the burned note and the silver in her boot had somehow changed her._

_How right he was._

She kept his gaze. "Is something wrong?" she asked, turning her jaw as though curious. Taking the reins before he could.  _For in theory, nothing should have changed since the time he had seen her last._

Eyes that did not blink. Like a bloodhound smelling something rank beneath the surface, he inhaled and then returned the question to her court with an unfeigned smile. " _Is_  there something wrong?"

"No," she said.

Her breath starting to waver, her nerves starting to betray her for a lie.  _He had offered to be her ally. She had accepted it on that ship…and yet he…he could not know of this. He could not see it._ _The red in her eyes. The world that was about to come crashing down._ The thought giving her an opening, as though fate had meant for her to distract him.

"You drugged me," she said. Looking pointedly at the carpet, the spot where her travelling box had been, and then back at him, as though  _that_  were the issue.  _The red in her eyes. The tears of an irrational woman._   _One that had just been drugged._

"Oh you remember that, do you?" And already there was a pull of amusement on his face. His reaction making her flinch, but his suspicions seeming to evaporate with the question. His interest now on the empty chair across from him. Clearly waiting for her to take her seat, but disinclined towards ordering her.

_She had to be careful._

Her stomach gripped with fear—but her mind staying wary. Until he left this room, he had to imagine that all was as it should be. _That she had accepted his offer. That she wanted to stay in this…underworld of lycans. Like Persephone eating the seeds of Hades._

With a sigh, she let go of the wardrobe's handle and stepped forward to take her seat across from him."I  _still_  fail to see the humour," she said with a sniff, as though his amusement was simply another reason for her to detest him.  _As though nothing had changed. Hrafn would not come…and she would stay and live in this world. She would live among the wolves. She would learn their customs and follow their ways…_

He was no longer paying attention. "What's in the R section?"

 _Blood, his eyes were good._  Feeling the lie on her lips, she followed his gaze and saw the giant English-Russian tome on the desk.  _It was open to Raven_. The word sitting on the page like a calling card. The ashes still curling in the fire. Her knowledge of English words starting with R giving her very little room for manoeuvre in her answer. "I wanted to see if…" Thinking fast, she swallowed and spoke the name he had given her.  _Only the second time that she had ever said it_. "…' _Reinette'_  meant anything in English."

" _Reinette?"_ he repeated, as though unsure if he was in the right room all of a sudden. And then he let the scholar take over. "Well, you won't find it in there," he said, finally looking away from the book. "It's French. Short for little queen."

_How ironic of him._

"And Rena?"

She had not seen her warden for days.  _Not since that awful night in the prison. Part of her hoping that Rena had stayed behind. That Rena would be safe from the coming of Hrafn._

Again he looked surprised by her question. Her sudden interest in things starting with 'R' seeming to puzzle him, but his concept of self-worth making him hardly reticent. "That would be Hebrew. It means 'melody.'"

 _Melody,_ she frowned.  _Well that seemed…_

He inhaled. "Yes I know," he said, as if she had spoken aloud. "Very ill-fitting. You can hardly get a  _peep_  out of her nowadays, but…" He made a noncommittal sound, letting his eyes follow the shadows on the ceiling. "…that's life for you."

Another chime sounding in her head.

 _Life_.

 _Shadows on the ceiling and the occasional conversation in the firelight._ And yet in a matter of time, the fire would be creeping up the ceiling. Her instincts telling her to flee. Run from this faceless demon that was about to descend on them. As though the seconds were counting themselves down until the end. "What time is it?" she asked. Knowing her time was coming to an end.

"Half past seven." He was still looking at the ceiling, but he was scratching his arm now.  _Always scratching something,_ she decided _. Like a wolf trying to lick its wounds in the dark._

"Day or night?"

"Day."

She heaved a sigh. "Good," she said.  _That was good. There were hours yet. Hours before the sun went down. When Hrafn came, it would be night…and it was not night yet. She was safe. They were all safe still._ Her arms circling the cushion on the chair, drawing it closer.  _Wondering as she did whether a lycan was as terrifying as she had once thought it was._

"Why is it good?" He had raised his eyebrow. The nails no longer scratching but standing poised on his forearm.  _She was acting strange. Anyone could see that, but then he always seemed to find her strange. Her decisions. Her presence._

She inhaled deeply and then let out a long breath, conjuring up an answer.  _Whatever she said, it would not matter. She belonged to Hrafn. Her wagers meant nothing beside that._  "You said I'd have to go back to the catacombs in the morning…"

"Well, that was…" By his tone, he was pointing things out for someone a bit slow on the uptake. "…fourteen hours ago…" He looked at his watch. "…so in theory, you still have another night to choose."

 _And what choice was that_ , she wondered.  _All this time, the choice had never been hers. She was a victim of fate, living on borrowed time, moving into this world and thinking for a fraction of an hour that she belonged here._

She felt herself smile in spite of the fear. "Is that why you're here so early?" she asked. "To make me choose?"

" _That_  and I'm under house-arrest." He said it as if it were something to be proud of. "So when I hear the footsteps of another prisoner, I feel compelled to recruit her before I throw myself back in chains."

"Chains?" she repeated with a raised eye of skepticism. _He may have used her box to transport cargo, but they could hardly put him under 'house-arrest' because of it. The warden always making a mockery of his prisoner._

"Alright," he said, as though she had pushed his hand. "… _splen_ -dour. Now the drugs are gone and your mind is clear, woman. Do you want to stay or not?"

"What I want, Lyosha, is to avoid answering questions until the truce is over," she said. Knowing that whatever she said, it would not matter anymore.  _That it was a false hope. That whatever she did, Hrafn would come for her._

"Oh that is very poor sport, madam." The air of his words dry like a gentleman whose lady had just retired for the sake of a headache. His hand reaching into his pocket and flipping something gold onto her lap. "…perhaps this will change your mind?"

Her eyes lit up before she could stop herself. "You  _found_  it?"

"I wasn't looking for it," he retorted; always the cocky wit; as though he could not believe they were having this conversation. No longer the gentleman, but the bored valet waiting on her mournful leisure. "…and before you ask– _no,_  it's not the same one, so…" He shrugged. "…take it or leave it."

 _Did everything have to be an 'extreme' for him_ , she wondered with an inward sigh.  _Take it or leave it. Stay or go._  For a moment wanting to throw it back at him.  _Less a gift than a crumb for the bird that had just sung for its supper._ But looking down upon her lap, she felt her anger ebbing away. Her resolve starting to falter.

The delicate chain of a pendant-watch held between her fingers. Almost a mirror of the first, save for the open sky behind the lighthouse. The sea roiling about in its berth, and her heart sinking as she realised the osprey was missing from its flight. The scene feeling empty without its presence.

 _An omen_ , she realised.  _For in the dream, she had been a creature of the sea_ …

_...but in life, she had no place here._

"Thank you," she said stiffly. Unhooking the clasp and fastening it around her neck before looking away.  _For despite the omen…despite the terror that would occur when the sun set, she would keep it as a reminder. Even after Hrafn took her from this place, she would keep it. Not the book of poisons nor the death she had once longed to see…_

… _but the pendant._

"So you like it?" he said. By his tone, obviously failing to understand why. His words blunt and intrusive, indicating that this was  _not_  what he had expected at all. Less concerned with the gift than her reaction to it. Ruining the moment despite having been the one to cause it.  _Could he not give her a moment, for bloods' sake._

"Does it matter?"

"No, but…" He leaned back, regarding her with some suspicion. "…you have to admit something has changed since yesterday..."

" _Nothing_  has changed."

"Oh  _what_ ," he said with a scornful smile. "Of course it has." He looked very dissatisfied with her answer. "…and maybe I can shed some light on my perspective here." He sat forward, joining his hands in front of him. The kind of gesture that said this was hardly the kind of conversation he was used to having, but that  _'there you have it_.'

"On the one hand—and pretend you are me," he suggested. "…it's like…"

He was making a significant effort to bring the topic  _down_  to her level. Trying to put into smaller words, this strange thing he was sensing. "It's like stepping through a door…" he said, using his hand to indicate the door. Literally for the sake of her stupidity. "…and yesterday…" He turned to her. "…you smelled like saffron and blood and drugged vampire and what have you…and then _today—_ and here's the key, Reinette _—_ today _,_ it's more like…" He was searching for a word. "…you know…"

Of course, he came up with something.

"…half-eaten carcass rotting beside the wolfsbane." The comparison seemed to work for him.  _Clearly he was already familiar with the smell._ "…so can we not…" He paused, seeming to ponder the word before abruptly plucking it out of the air. "... _talk_  about this issue, Reinette, because I am open to the topic." He opened his watch and closed it again, brisk in spite of the careless exterior. "Alright?"

She had yet to say anything. Instead choosing to meditate on that one word.  _Alright._

 _Was it alright,_ she wondered.

For with that simple word, she could swear she heard another chime in her head.  _The third chime of the hour._  The one that signified the all clear, the end of the night's watch where all had to be 'right' in his world, even though hers was about to fall apart. Still she had the distinct impression that he was trying to reach out. Trying to make her take his hand and trust him. Tell him what was troubling her. Tell him so that everything could be  _alright._

And yet somehow…

She couldn't get past the other word.  _Carcass._ She kept hearing it.  _Carcass_. Not just any carcass. A 'half-eaten' carcass rotting beside some 'wolfsbane.' A very useful piece of knowledge given how long it had taken her to get past the idea of having spent twenty years in a catacomb. His words at the very least helping her to forget—just for that singular moment—that she was afraid. Instead, causing her to remember how just a few hours ago, she had  _longed_  to see the cogs that made this creature of legend tick…and now… _finally_ …

…realising that  _this_  was him.

_Lucian._

_The most ruthless leader of the lycan horde. Lingering in the dark, biding his time for some dreadful purpose._ The history of his legendary existence now less intriguing to her than the simple mystery of how he'd survived this long without being assassinated by one of his mistresses. Going over the hundreds of ways that she could express this sudden clarity of thought in a manner that he could comprehend. Finally settling on the most obvious one.

She sat back.

"Lyosha, what is  _wrong_  with you?" she asked dimly. Feeling oddly restrained for this was quite possibly the last time she'd ever see this man; and after spending months—what felt like years—suffering under this blunt facet of his personality, she truly wished to know. His answer giving her little in the way of fodder.

"Lots of things," he said directly. As though talking about himself was one of the more boring aspects of his life.

"But why not just ignore it…" Having yet to feel more angry than thoughtful, she kept her eyes glued to her pendant. Trying to see his perspective in the reflection. Even his neck. "…or  _leave_  it?"

"I never leave things." He had the face of a man contemplating life on a pasture, sounding as though he were having a conversation with the air. Looking far too comfortable for his own good. "I'm not good at leaving things."

 _Nor letting things go_ , she realised. And yet beyond strangling him with her bare hands, her question was perhaps the only way to satisfy the growing fire in her chest. "But what does…" She smiled, tasting the words like poison on her tongue. "…the scent of rotting  _carcass_ have to do with it?"

He shrugged. "All depends."

"On  _what_  exactly?" She was trying to keep her voice down. Trying to remain calm and grip her pendant like every other rotting carcass in this room.  _The scent of rotting carcass apparently something he found more intriguing than offensive. Like a…skull he had found on the side of the road. A rat he was picking up by the tail and sniffing to see if it was worth dissecting. He and his entire blood-forsaken den of carcass-sniffing wolves._

He finally seemed to have an idea on where she was going with this. "I'm not saying it's a bad smell," he cut in. 'It's just a very  _specific_  smell."

"You mean like  _opium?"_ she asked. At some point, she had risen to her feet, her nails gripped at her side, while the words continued to flow from that deep quarry of bitterness that she had been harbouring for the past seven months. "Or cannabis? Or the bite-marks of some syphilis-carrying whore," she suggested. "Did you ever think of  _that?_ "

"Frequently," he said after a moment, taking a deep breath through his nose; and then shaking his head slowly as though he were still trying to work out the ingredients. "But  _no_ , I'm happy to say it's not syphilis."

She almost screamed.

Counselling herself to breathe through her nose. Breath through the nose and speak as quietly as she could. Every syllable taking great concentration for every syllable brought with it the desire to scrape an eye from his face. "I  _know_  it's not syphilis, Lyosha." His name practically hissed from her tongue.  _The man was a nightmare. She ought to be glad of Hrafn's coming. She ought to be dancing a lark, prancing around the room at the very thought of leaving this…_

… _bastard._

"Now  _that_ ," he said, stabbing his finger towards her. As though she were  _finally_  speaking his language, like she had dropped some imaginary waymark on this walk he was taking through the air. "That I understand," he said. It was a pronouncement. "That makes sense."

_What was he even talking about?_

She turned slowly, letting her nails hang before she could do anything regrettable. _He had to be doing this on purpose. Riling her for some inexplicable reason._ The question off her tongue before she could stop it. " _What_  makes sense?"

He had the balls to put his boot on her chair. "Anger. Hostility. The general sense that if you  _had_  your way, my head would be sitting on the coals right now," he said. Not even giving her a chance to argue. "And for  _you_ , Reinette, those are basic ingredients…" He was gesturing as though it were all elementary. "But the  _rest_ , I'm afraid, has me perplexed."

"The rest of  _what?_ "

"Fear."

And when he said it, the room seemed to fall away. She could see only the stone in his eyes. His good humour stripped away, leaving behind the callous creature she had met in that monastery. _The one that had carved into her back. Grabbing her chin and forcing her to stare into his eyes with fear. He was the fire. And the pain. The grey eyes of the storm._

"The gathering is over, Reinette. Their decision is binding, and they will not take your head on a whim." His words were solemn, his attentions focused, staring at the her as though every emotion was wearing itself upon her skin. "So I have to ask myself then, why…after all that has happened…are you so afraid of me right now?"

And for a moment, she could not answer. Her stomach sinking. Tying itself into a knot and then trying to swim.  _He knew. Somehow he knew that she was afraid._   _And yet he could not know. For she had to convince him. She had to convince him that everything was normal. That life was as it should be. That she had accepted his offer. That this golden cage he had crafted was not about to collapse._

"I am  _not_  afraid of you," she said.

_But it sounded hollow._

_Like the eye of the storm._ His hands in his pockets as he stood, coming to stand beside her. His shadow towering over the room as he seemed to brood over the fire. And when he spoke, his words were more tired than blunt. As though everything he had just harvested had turned to ash in front of him.

"You know, the first time you smelled like this," he said. His expression almost wry as though the irony was something he could not help but mention. "…you were convinced I was going to tear your head off."

 _It was an opening. All she had to do was confess. Tell him what was happening. Warn him of Hrafn's coming._  And yet she felt like there were chains on her arms. Binding her to every lie as she walked along this wire of deceit.

"And when was that?"

"In the carriage," he said. He seemed surprised that she had forgotten. "First night we met," he added with a smile. Reaching for the iron poker and examining its curve. "…and then I  _tried_  to get you to sit; but you were too stubborn."

Her throat tightened. Watching the curve of the iron. "So were you."

"Yes," he said. And then with an air of abandonment, he turned and sat down again, letting the poker-iron drop to the carpet with a thud. "…but I had hoped we had gotten past that," he finished. His questions seeming to lose themselves with that word. As though he had lost his will.

_Oh for bloods' sake._

The room came back into focus. The warmth of the fire drawing her back from the edge. She dropped into her chair as well, breathing a sigh of relief, realising how ominous that poker-iron was looking until he dropped it. And for that matter did he have to be so blood-forsakenly dramatic?  _Scent of a rotting carcass indeed._  For all she knew, that was  _his_  smell _,_ she decided _._ His demons. His fears. He was petrified of being a monster. Terrified that after all this time, she was still seeing him as an animal. But as far as she was concerned, that had nothing to do with  _her_  smell.

_Until another chime sounded in her head._

_Another word._

_Smell._

For the first time, she considered the terminology they had been using for the past twenty minutes. _Smell._ Staring at him. Her thoughts starting to move quickly. Her brain remembering things he had said. Things he had insinuated. Her intellect fighting with the obvious.  _And yet how else could he have known? How could he have walked into this room and known that she was afraid. From the first moment, he had known._

She felt a weight drop.  _Deep in the pit of her stomach._

"Lyosha?"

He spoke in an exhale. "Reinette?" And by his tone, he had given up trying to fix the situation.

"What…" Her voice needed to fight before it would leave her lungs. "…do you mean by ' _smell_ '?"

 _Clearly not the question he had been expecting._  But rather than be surprised by anything she did anymore, he raised an eye to look at her _._  The expression stating that he also believed she was doing this 'on purpose', and that if she wanted to keep playing the imbecile, then she might as well mark herself with a target and go hunting. "What do you think I mean by smell?"

_Oh no._

_No,_ she decided.  _Like the wolf from the old stories. The creature that could smell fear in the heart of the crow._

 _It was impossible._  And yet her breath was growing shorter. Her head shaking. Her upper half now shifting, ever so slowly back in her chair.  _For if he could smell one emotion, then what…other…emotion could he smell?_  Her mind leaping back into her past trying to categorise what she had done. What she had said. The number of conversations.  _The carriage. The ship. Her quarters. The catacombs. That time in the cave. Right after the vision. She had been thinking about…_

Before she could say it, before she could even think it, he breathed a single, sardonic sentence. "I still have  _yet_  to identify that one."

With a cry of indignation, she pushed her chair back and leapt to her feet. Backing away across the carpet. Backing away from this… _aberration_ …of the senses.  _Something that had been obvious since the first day. Something she ought to have noticed. That sense. That ability to just pounce on every facet of her troubles. She was… she was…_

He sighed deliberately. "Let me guess," he said. "Indignant."

"I am  _not_  indignant," she hissed. Her eyes wide. Affronted. Her hand reaching for the door handle, trying to…to what.  _There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide._ Her nails growing in fury as she had to abandon her escape. "What kind of  _sick_  person fails to mention that sort of thing?"

"Oh come on, Reinette, this is  _hardly_  front-page news," he said. His manner bland and unruffled, like a gentleman trying to straighten his newspaper after she had stepped on it.

"For  _whom?_ "

Her voice had gone up by a pitch. Her question left unanswered as it was obvious he found it rhetorical. Her steps taking her several times around the room, keeping a suspicious eye on him. Both her hands pressed against her back.  _How had she smelled in his presence,_ she thought. _He had said it once. She smelled as though she…liked his company. Oh blood, he could smell when she was_ … _pleased. The memory of that night in the catacombs. Had she shown something? Had she smelled a particular way?_

_She was starting to panic..._

"Yes," he added. "Because that always helps."

" _Stop_ …doing that," she growled, turning on her heel to stare at him…and then raising her hand to her forehead. Continuing to pace.  _He could smell everything. That was improper. It was an abuse of power. It was_ …

… _indecent._

"You  _should_  have said something." She could hear the accusation in her voice. She was trying to be emotionless. Trying not to think about what she might have…smelled like in his presence.  _Why could he not have said something?_

"Like  _what?"_  For the second time that week, he sounded like the only  _sane_  individual in the room.  _Perhaps uncomfortable with the sudden attention, but still trying to block her with his invisible newspaper._  "One minute you're crying. The next minute you're happy. It's not exactly a finely-tuned  _science_ , alright?"

" _Enlighten_  me."

"Oh  _surprise_ ," he grunted at the ceiling. His voice louder than hers and his temper clearly more sarcastic. "…you're ' _angry.'_  How the  _hell_  could I have known that without sniffing the air?"

She was seething. "Maybe if you were less of an  _animal_ , we could find out," she snapped.

A slash of silver crossed his eye. So unnerving, the sense that she had just overstepped her bounds by a mile. Squinting at her as though she'd grown a second head. His eyes seeming to accuse her of something awful and then his brain coming up with a very simple solution.  _Something he should have done ages ago._

He left.

The door slamming shut. The key turning in its lock before she could pound her fist against the wood. Hoping he could smell what she was feeling right now.  _Glad._  Glad she would be taken.  _Glad she would be leaving this damnable house._  Her emotions rising. Seething. And then collapsing. Her hands starting to shake. Her throat starting to sob.  _He was coming. Hrafn was coming…_

_…and there was no one to stop him._


	53. A Token of Remorse

**Chapter LIII: A Token of Remorse**

_Eight hours later._

Though she guarded her tongue throughout the day, Rena had seen many things from her perch above the eastern stairwell. She saw the travelling box being carried back and forth down the hallway. She saw Raze and Singe arguing before they left for morning roll-call. She saw Lucian striding up the stairs, two at a time, before pausing on the last one. Turning to look behind him. His eyes spotting her in the dark before he reached a scent out to her.

_Something he had not done in years. That quiet melancholy. That mournful stare asking her to come down. Like in the days after the revolution. The guillotine on fire and she still searching for her sons among the dead._

Bu she would not come down…and unless her clothes were on fire, he would not force her. So he walked on, wrapping the scent in a void again. Entering the room of the small bird and staying until his bark became loud, his conversation angry. The door slamming shut and the key turning in its lock. The grey wolf pressing his skull against the door, almost in pain, before he stormed from the east wing. Too enraged to look up or even remember that she was still there.

The wing staying silent and abandoned until Rena dropped from her perch, venturing to the kitchens and searching for the meal she ought to have collected hours before. The blood cold, the scullery maid missing and Mrs. Fulligan in a mood to scold someone. Two of her lycan boys larking about the front stoop, trying to muss each other's hair up…and then quieting their tongues as she passed. _No one ever spoke to her. She was a guard…and she would not speak to them if they did._

So with the tray laden with blood and marrow, Rena entered her charge's room. Stepping silent around the small bird asleep on the floor with her silver head resting upon her arms. The veil abandoned and the woman dressed from her boots up to her neck. The blood left on the side-table and the door closed. Locked once more.

Her perch resumed and her head resting on her fist. Waiting through the afternoon until something new entered the eastern wing. First a pair of eyes reflecting at the bottom of the stairs. Then a shadow lowering itself to its hands and knees, creeping slowly like a cat across the hallway…step by step…turning its head this way and that until it stood before her charge's door. Small and barely in possession of a scent, it had the manner of a child…but it smelled like the lycan-master.

Rena pounced.

The ensuing scuffle so brief that her hands were over Sabine's mouth and holding her up by the scruff of her neck before the handle could turn. The child starting to struggle, her growls less ferocious than a small hedgehog, but her nails speaking volumes of the indignity. The scratches small compared to the field of war.

The two of them taking the long walk down to the dusk-lit balcony of the east wing. The stones green and the iron-wrought chairs covered in rain-washed dirt and mouse droppings.  _An adequate setting for an interrogation._ Far enough away to avoid waking sleeping birds, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.

So with her back to the sun, Rena forced Sabine's hand open, confiscated the bag she was hiding, and then dropped her in a heap beside the rail. The bag light, but containing everything the girl had collected over the past seven months. Tobacco, cigarettes, matches, perfume. An inkwell, Reinette's journal…and her iron-ring puzzle.

_Everything stolen._

She could hear the girl yowling. Screaming at her to give the items back. Furious and scratching until she saw that Rena did not care. That Rena was stronger than her. Sabine then reacting as most children did. Hissing with blunt teeth and then storming to the other side of the balcony. Crawling under one of the rusty tables and burying a tear-stricken face into her knees. The trimmings of her dress now stained with cobwebs and dirt.

 _And yet Rena had no opinion on such matters._  No opinion on a child that had been left to fend for herself in a stately home filled with soldiers and servants. A grand-sire that had no time for her. A god-mother that lived across a channel. An army of riding instructors and governesses that were teaching her to act like a lady so that she could hide in plain sight. Hide her emotions. Hide her scent. Hide her fears. Hide an ear that was missing and a dead mother that no one ever talked about.

 _Like this puzzle. The trick hiding in plain sight._ Her legs unexpectedly crossing the balcony until she stood before the rusty table. Her voice rusty as though coming from a hole in her chest. "Do you know how to use this?" she asked. Too softly for most ears to notice.

But through the patterned holes of the table, she saw Sabine raise her head again, angry and adamant, her grey eyes starting to glow. But children could not Change without the moon, so the glow faded and the tears started to brim again.

The girl shook her head.

So with the light of the sun starting to dim behind her, Rena sat down, cross-legged and stooping so they both would fit under the table. And then she held up the puzzle in front of the girl. "How many rings are there?"

"Twelve."

Rena nodded.  _Good_. Moving her fingers slowly so Sabine could see, she pushed one of the rings through the other…and then again, through another ring. "Now how many?"

Sabine did not look pleased. As though she had been tricked. Her voice miserable and demanding. "How did you do that?"

 _Simple_ , thought Rena, undoing the puzzle again. Repeating her own memory. Lucian crouching down beside his ward, showing her the trick before he forged the rest of them. "I'll do it again." She took the twelve rings and pushed one of them through the other…and then again, through another ring. "Now how many?"

"Fourteen." She was sitting on her knees now, trying to reach forward for the rings. "How does it work?"

Rena held the puzzle out of reach. "I'll show you…" She turned it. "…but only if you give back what you've taken and tell Lyosha what you've done."

As though she'd been stung, Sabine's hands fell to her lap. Her eyes too wide for her face. Her expression too stern for a child that had just been crying. Wanting the puzzle, but weighing the consequences of truth, and then choosing to lie. "Lyosha gave them to me," she said.

Unconcerned by the bold-faced lie, Rena pulled the bag closer to them and shook it until she found the metal cigarette box. Bound with leather and lined with wood. It had a beetle engraved upon it.  _A symbol of Raze._  She held it up. "Did Lyosha give you this?"

It was a blunt question. Her back to the sun and the light shining down on her subject. Sabine trying to hold the stare until she winced. "No," the girl finally said. Looking down and then heaving a sigh before crawling forward into the sun. "…but I only took it because Allegra said Raze should stop smoking so much."

 _An unlikely story._  She opened the case. Five cigarettes. She took one and closed it again. "When?"

"During the New Years' party." Sabine was mulling over the bag. "…and he was going to say 'yes,' but then Lyosha said 'if they were taking votes, maybe they could start by burning Allegra's perfume first.'"

 _She might be telling the truth._  If so, the girl had a good memory for conversations. Using one of the matches, Rena lit the cigarette. "They argued?"

Sabine nodded. Looking as though she wanted to cry again. "And when Allegra told him he could stick the perfume up his backside, he lit another cigarette and said that just made it more flammable. And then Raze started laughing with Lyosha, but I don't think Allegra thought it was so funny."

 _That sounded accurate._ Rena started laying the items out. The story presenting itself with the evidence.  _Raze's cigarette-box_. Now containing four cigarettes.  _Allegra's perfume_. A small Guerlain bottle with the hand-written words 'Seulement l'amour' scrawled across the label.  _Lucian's matches_. The small box advertising a pair of gentlemen lighting their pipes in a storm. The words "Bryant  & May's 'Flaming Fusees'" printed across the front. Will flame in wind or rain, she read.

Her gaze returned to her subject.

Sabine took a deep breath. "So then I hid the perfume," she said. "…and when Lyosha fell asleep in the conservatory, I took the matches out of his pocket."

Rena blew smoke into the wind. "He did not wake?"

Sabine shook her head. "He never wakes…and then a few weeks later, I was going to ask him if I could have a new horse, but he was asleep again. Except he'd left one of the drawers in his desk open and there was all this tobacco in it. And Allegra always says 'chewing tobacco is a disgusting habit,' so I took that as well."

 _Hmph_ , Rena thought, considering the rest of her cigarette and then snuffing it out on the stone.  _The girl was lucky in both age and lineage. Anyone else and he would have woken at the scent_. Flicking away the stub, she added the tobacco—rolled into a small cotton bag—to the line of objects and then picked up the inkwell. The cork mangled along the edges like it had been chewed. Too light to be ink. She placed the inkwell in front of Sabine.

"Where does the ink fit in?" she asked.

It was torture.

Sabine staring miserably at the object. "I didn't mean to take that one," she said. "They were both in the same drawer, and when I reached for the tobacco, my…" She looked ashamed. "…my nails grew and I s-scratched the cork." It was common among children. This inability to control their own form. "A whole piece of it came off…and he would have seen, so I had to take the whole bottle with me."

 _The ruse working for no one had noticed. Not a single person had noticed this child scurrying beneath their feet._   _The moment when Rena ought to speak coming and then passing as it often did._

Instead she emptied the bag and pushed forward the last of the evidence. Her ring-puzzle and Reinette's charcoal-stained journal.

_Time to confess._

At first the girl shook her head. "Lyosha  _gave_  them to me," she pleaded.

Rena said nothing. The success of interrogation having less to do with speaking than waiting for a crack. In passing, she considered the journal and then flipped it open. Finding the last page…now covered in a child's drawing of a veiled woman.

_A recent addition._

Sabine looked desperate. "But she left it behind," she said. There was no question of how she had snuck in the catacombs to find the journal. Apparently Sabine had been sneaking a great many places over the past year. "…and when I asked Singe if she was coming back, he told me not to get attached to things."

 _Good advice_ , thought Rena as she waited for the crack. For she had been attached to things once. Attached to dresses and books and her sons. Showing them the trick of the puzzle as Lucian had shown it to her. Her fingers rotating the rings and then holding the puzzle up. The key to this child's confession.  _For they both knew who it belonged to._

Sabine used the back of her hand to wipe her face. Her tears were starting to brim over.

 _Confess_ , thought Rena.

"But I was only trying to keep it safe for you," Sabine cried suddenly. She had started wringing her hands and by her scent, she could not understand what she had done wrong. "…Muh-m-ma always said that if I kept her things safe, she would come back for them…" Her voice becoming unnaturally strained. And then she snivelled. "…but she didn't." Her face began to crumple. "The c-carehouse sold all her t-things and she never c-came back for me."

 _The words seeming to strike the girl in a manner that she herself had not expected._  Rena continuing to observe as the girl's lower lip began to tremble, trying to hold the inevitable back.  _She had been an interrogator for forty years. The signs easy to detect whether in the face of a child or a death-dealer. The initial tears only a precursor to this true, unabashed form of desolation._

_The scent of breaking down._

Sabine started to bawl. The ravens at the top of the house scattering at the sound. Loud and obtrusive, the kind of thing that made fur crawl off its skin. At least two guards on the ground floor taking a step back, trying to see the ruckus going on above their heads…and then realising the source with a grimace.

 _Lycan…child_.

The pitch and tone of a mewling pup enough to send anyone with a respectable ear-drum on their way. A sound that Rena had known once. Smelled once. Although even she was uncertain of when the girl had collapsed into her arms.

"I d-don't want to go back to the lycan carehouse," Sabine wailed, shaking her head. Sobbing into her arms. Pleading with Rena as though she held the key to that future. "…he'll s-send me b-back if I tell." Her voice was getting higher and higher in its pitch. The words trembling and desperate. "I don't want to go b-back," she said again. "I don't w-want to go back."

The lycan carehouse.

Even in a society where children were spoiled, it was a barracks for the unwanted. A place for runts to get picked on…a place for ears to get torn off. Sabine had been there for three years before Lyosha had brought her across the channel. And though she felt nothing in her heart, like the night when she had consoled her charge, Rena felt her hand moving across the girl's hair. Soothing her. "Why do you think Lyosha would send you back there?"

"B-because he…" Sabine was breathing too fast. Trying to get the words out. "…he and Allegra w-were talking and she said he should have brought me here s-sooner. And h-he said 'w-what the hell w-was I…" There was too much air coming out of her lungs. "…s-supposed to duh-do with a…" She tried to breathe. "…w-with a child?"

A child.

Such a desperate, shivering child. So stormy and full of emotion. Something she had not trusted herself to fathom in almost a hundred years...and yet there she was. The two of them sitting there, watching the waning sun as Rena began to rock the girl back and forth. The world peaceful on the horizon. Like a stone holding a mouse, soothing the little one in her arms, feeling no emotion and yet finding herself able to speak. As though holding the small one made it easier to draw breath.

" _Listen_  to me," she said. "Listen." So soft that even she had to strain to hear her own voice. Looking down at the torn ear. "…when I was a child and Lyosha was my guardian…I did something _worse_  than you."

Sabine looked up. Impossible, her eyes said. Red eyes to match her red hair. Inconsolable until she wiped her nose against her sleeve and sniffed, "W-what did you do?" No longer the demanding young miss but a child without a mother. Leaving the smallest trace of spit on her shoulder.

 _What indeed_ , Rena thought. Something she had never admitted.  _Not in two hundred years._ So with the small breath she had, Rena spoke the truth of what she had done.

"I killed something," she said. "Something that belonged to Mme. Durand _."_ And then she waited.  _For it was the first time she had ever spoken it out loud. The truth of this confession harder for her to admit than any act of war._

There was a moment of silence. And then Sabine sat up. Wiping her eyes, the tears stopping for the brief moment that it took her to comprehend that she knew nothing of this subject. "Madame _who?_ "

" _Durand_ ," Rena said again, starting to wish she had not stubbed out her cigarette. "…she was my tutor when Lyosha's den was still in Dordogne. _" A beautiful woman. Smart and kind in public…but cruel when no one was watching._

The girl repeated the strange word under her breath before saying it out loud. "Where is Dor…dogne?" she asked. Still wretched in her scent, but able to focus now on a tale. Something other than her troubles.

"France," Rena replied. "A beautiful estate in France filled with gardens and rivers…and every day, Mme. Durand would walk her dog in the apple orchard." Her voice starting to flow as the rust came off her vocal cords. "The most expensive dog that you can imagine. One that she loved more than anything else in the world."

_And for a moment, Rena was no longer a soldier._

_She was a child _…a_ nd she could see the scene before her. For its memory was so distinct. _Her days spent walking around a stately chateau in silks and satins. Her nights filled with embroidery and music. Riding parties and harpsichords. Little dogs and laughter as the den began to blend with the eighteenth century.

Her voice speaking again as though she were no longer in control of it.

"And then one day," she heard herself say. "…Mme. Durand was not in the orchard…and when I knocked on her bed-chamber, I heard her laugh and tell me to go away. But I would not," she said. "So then Lyosha came to the door and he assured me that Mme. Durand was only tired. And that I could help if I walked her dog for a few hours—so that she could rest…"

_Rest._

_She had found out a few years later what that meant._

But Sabine had no understanding of such a thing. Clutching her waist, her eyes red, but now wide as saucers. As though she were seeing this terrible scene occurring before her eyes. "What did you do?" the girl asked.

_What…_

_…did she do,_ thought Rena.

"I followed his instructions," she replied, absently watching the past as she spoke of it. "…I walked the dog through the orchard. But as it barked…and yapped…and pulled on its leash, it occurred to me that I hated this  _dog_  as much as I hated Mme. Durand." Her voice was barely a murmur. "…so on the way back to the chateau, I snapped its neck…and I ate it."

"You ate it?" Sabine looked horrified, as though she were about to cry again. Perhaps it had never occurred to her that her food could be taught to roll over. "Did Lyosha find out?"

"Oh  _yes_ ," said Rena, still tasting the bones from that succulent carcass. "They were eating dinner when I came back…and though I was covered in dog's blood, I knew my  _manners_  because Mme. Durand had been teaching me how to be a lady all this time." She breathed into her smile. "So I left the leash at the side of the door, wiped my mouth on a serviette and took my place at the dining table. Folding my hands in my lap and informing them that I was too full to eat the first course."

Sabine gasped. "That is  _horrible_ ," she said, raising her eyes to look up at Rena's head. Such obvious defiance something that she had never even considered possible. "What did he say?"

With her thumb, Rena smoothed away one of the girl's tears. "He asked me twice if I had eaten the dog and I told him twice that I had not."

"Was he angry?"

"Furious." The word seeming ill-equipped to describe the scent of silver-eyed death sitting at the far end of a dining table. "…and you can imagine—me covered in blood and Mme. Durand about to faint—I thought he was going to skin me alive. But then as we sat in this game of staring, his anger, it became…"

"Worse?"

"Much worse," said Rena, pondering the girl's shadow intertwined with her own. Barely hearing the sound of her own voice as she continued to speak.  _He had laughed._ _The kind of laughter that failed to mask itself. The kind that failed to care if people thought it was mad._  Laughter while Mme. Durand screamed as though the house had set itself on fire.

Sabine looked troubled. "But why did he laugh?"

She raised her eyes from the shadow. "I think it was the absurdity." His reasons for laughing something he had never explained to her.  _The absurdity of life. The farce of a den of werewolves prancing around in silk._  "But after Mme. Durand began to scream…it was no longer absurd. My father overseas, my mother dead, and here this woman…she is about to kill me," she added, looking down at the girl's head. Remembering how defiant she was…and how scared. "…and like you, I thought he was going to send me away."

"Did he?"

"Of course not," Rena said. "…he told her I was staying so she left in a huff…" Her finger hovering over Sabine's cheek and then touching her chin. "…but I was never allowed near the kennels again."

Even through her tears, Sabine could see the light. The possibility of being forgiven for her crime starting to show itself on the horizon. Yet night was starting to fall. Her misery soon brimming over with the darkness. She buried her face into Rena's neck again. "He still doesn't want me here."

"You have no proof of that," Rena said. Remembering herself. Remembering her place in this house. Pulling away from the girl. Only to reach out again, taking a firm grip on the girl's hand and drawing her out from beneath the table. The two of them staring at one another…until she crouched down, letting Sabine crawl onto her back. Gathering all the stolen items to the bag as the girl found a more comfortable grip. "You would not be here if he did not want you here."

Sabine locked her arms around Rena's neck. "But why does he never spend time with me anymore?"

"He is very busy."

Despite the dull words coming from her mouth, Rena had no opinion on what she was saying. It was a lie to make the girl happy. To have her believe that he was not spending more time with his drug than the small ward he had brought home and subsequently forgotten.  _Like asking her to walk a dog so the lycan-master could have more time to fuck his mistress._ But she could not blame him for his choices. Not without being a hypocrite.

The sun almost set and the hour lending itself to the dark. The time of bloods. A time when small children should not be out. Shaking the bag again as she stood, Rena found the iron-ring puzzle and held it behind her. "Take it," she said. "…and I will return the journal for you."

From behind, Sabine smelled unsure of herself. Ashamed. And then she felt the girl's hand reach out, taking the puzzle. Hiding it away in some pocket or another. "Thank you, Rena," she said, clinging tighter to her neck. Perhaps hugging.

Rena could no longer remember the difference as she turned back to the glass doors of the balcony. The world set right until they could find some means of returning all these items without informing Lucian. Something that would only prompt him to see the child in a different way.  _This uncanny ability to steal—something that he would see as 'fitting' for some war role or another. A front-runner. A line-pincher._

_Maybe even a lock-breaker._

The thought prompting Rena to turn, looking at the girl on her back with the first shred of skepticism she had shown in years.  _Children always had a plan until it failed_. "How did you plan to get inside?"

Sabine looked ashamed by the question, but determined to make everything right now that she had confessed. Her hand reached out, pointing to the crest of the roof. "I was climbing through the attic," she said. "…there's an entrance there through the servant's quarters. Grace unlocked it for me."

_Grace._

_The scullery maid._ _Missing from the kitchens all morning._ Rena stopped in her tracks. "What was she doing in the attic?"

"I don't know," she heard Sabine say. And then from behind, she heard the clink of iron. The sound of Sabine pulling a set of iron keys from her pocket. Keys that were identical to her own. "…but she gave me these keys and she said if I waited until sunset, I could slip through the door without you noticing. She said you'd be distracted."

_Distracted._

There was an awareness growing in her conscience. As though everything was moving in a slower time. Her hackles rising as the light of the sun dipped beneath the western horizon. Her senses moving too late. For she could see them on the other side of the glass, waiting in the dark of the east wing. Three shadows and a slumped figure waiting for the sun to go down.

_They had been tricked._

Realising what was happening, Rena sprinted for the balustrade, but the door swung on its hinges before she could throw the child over the railing. Sabine plucked from her back like an ant and sucked back into the house without a sound.  _Petrified with fear._

A tall dark shadow now gripping Rena's neck in his claws, forcing her to stand on her toes as he spoke into her ear. His face masked, but his scent filled with an orgy of red. Like a carrion-eater from the gates of hell.

"Scream…and I kill the little one."

And then he dropped a little one in her arms. Not Sabine. But the other little one of the household.  _Grace's daughter._  Her hair paler than snow and her face red and dripping with blood. Her eyes plucked out and the skin stripped from her cheeks. Her neck snapped like the neck of that small dog she had killed so many years ago.

Rena let out a small whimper as she fell to her knees, cradling the child's body. The guards walking below and she unable to make a sound. Not even a whisper as he raised one of the iron chairs and slashed it across her head. Her last thought filled with a reign of terror.

o…o…o

_Fifteen minutes earlier._

Reinette felt sick waiting by the fire. Waiting for this nightmare to end. But it had all happened so fast. Her prison unlocked and the four of them stepping into the room, closing the door behind them. Her rescuers: a fat lycan-woman with sweating eyes; a grasping vampire with only stubs for fingers; an empty-eyed, old woman who looked as though she had swallowed her tongue; and striding between them, one of the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen in her life…

…Nikolai. Proshkov. Andreev.

_Kolya._

She stumbled to her feet and then backed away, scrabbling for the poker iron. A sick thought starting to grow in her conscience before she buried it again.

_It was impossible._

His memories were too young. The memories of his blood showing her little more than glimpses of a life. Moments on that ship, rocking around in the dark waiting for something. A madness settling into his bones, something that made her suspect him of those murders…a secret that she had kept from Lucian. Reminding herself how much he idolised Aleksey Itzhak. How much he _obsessed_  about that man…

"Where is Hrafn," she demanded in Russian. Raising the poker iron above her head. _For they were not taking her without answering that question._

Kolya did not wait to be hit by the poker iron. His smile so sweet and his eyes on fire as he unabashedly knelt before her. "He  _waits_  for you," he said. And somewhere in his madness, she saw truth. "He sends us to collect his dark lady of the blood," he said. "…and to remind her of his promise."

_A promise._

She was still holding the iron. The three rescuers by his side keeping their eyes down as though they feared to look up. She could strike him across the head and he would not flinch from the wound. Something so tempting about this dark-haired angel she had first met on that ship. His coat dark but ill-fitting as though it did not belong to him.

"What promise?"

"To serve you as he served your Mentor." He bowed his head, letting his hair flow before him like silk. From the inside of his coat, pulling out a silver flask and holding it up to the firelight. Glimmering in the dying light. "To give you the blood and the youth of your people, so you will remember his face."

_Youth._

The poker-iron dropped. The words off her tongue before she could think of caution.  _Before she could remember that Hrafn had never served anyone in his life._ Almost lurching forward in her haste. " _Give_  it to me."

"Not yet," he said quickly, stepping back and grasping her hand gently before she could reach the blood. The temptation out of sight, making her wonder if she had dreamt it. "Please," he said now. Squinting down at her, his accent so sweet to her ears. "…lady, if the blood weakens you, we will lose our escape." His hand reaching forward to touch her face, but then holding back. Tenderly as though he could not trust himself. "You have the key that he sent you?"

_The key._

Hidden inside the sole of her boot. Like the fear she had hidden. Fear softening her words before she spoke. "Kolya," she said, for there must be some part of him that was still sane. Some part that still resembled the unlikely murderer from so many months ago. "Do you remember Rena?"

Kolya looked down at her. A trace of mistrust in his eye. "Who is Rena?"

"Only a guard," she said. Tasting the lie. Realising that Rena might already be dead and that she despaired for it. "But please, Kolya…" She squeezed his hand. "…she has served me well these past few months. You will not hurt her?"

"She has  _served_  you," he repeated. The word sounding harsh upon his tongue.  _A dangerous moment._  His nails curving along her cheek until they rested at the bottom of her chin. And then he touched his lips to her forehead. "I will spare her," he said with decisiveness. Holding her shoulder and then drawing her into his embrace.

 _She felt sick._ But there was no choice in the matter, so she swallowed her doubt. "I have the key," she said, indicating her boot, using the movement to draw away from him. Showing it from beneath the black trimmings.  _What was she doing with these people,_ she wondered.  _Why did this feel so wrong?_

"Good," he said, speaking less to her than the ones behind him. Making them leap into action. "It is good, my friends. We go  _now_."

 _Now_ , she thought, wanting to move. Wanting to speak…but unable to do it. The hand of this vampire, this beautiful vampire, touching her cheek and asking her to flee with him like Persephone from the hand of Hades.  _But did Persephone really want to leave,_ she wondered. The thought lasting only for a second. A second before she realised what was happening. His hand moving from her cheek to her mouth as the dream of escape became a hellish one.

_Cloroform._

He was drugging her. So light that she could almost see what was going on around her…the world hazy as he laid her down on the floor. Kolya starting to undress her down to her camisole, piece by piece, flinging the veil and dress to the fat lycan as she did the same for their other victim.

The old woman who matched her in height and stature. Starting to cry, opening her mouth, showing the empty space where they had cut out her tongue and her vocal cords. Now naked and trying to hold onto her last shred of clothing, trying to hide the puckered  _H_  they had seared into her abdomen.  _It was a nightmare. An awful dream._ _For it could not happen like this…_

… _not like this._

 _ _They were replacing her_ , _she realised. Trying to struggle. Her hands starting to grasp at the figures above her, trying to stop them…but too weak to do more than watch. For in her heart, she knew what was happening. The fat lycan pulling her arms this way and that, trying to dress her in the tongue-less woman's clothes. The strong fingers only hesitating when the pendant fell out from her camisole.

_Her pendant._

Such a small thing to cause so much surprise on this traitor's face. Doubt as their eyes met and she pleaded.  _Please_ , she thought, unable to do more than stare. Hoping this traitor within the den could smell her fear. Her desperation.

 _Please_ , she thought.  _Help her._

The traitor did worse. Jerking the pendant from around her neck. Glancing behind her and then pocketing the golden chain. Pulling her arms through the different holes and fastening the different buttons until she was dressed again. Too feeble to stand as the lycan and the stub-fingered vampire began to walk the corners of the room with a pot of incense.

A haze of yellow smoke that began to itch upon her skin.  _Her kidnappers hiding their trail with a burning scent._  Her eyes fighting to stay open as Kolya pulled her up into his arms, carrying her away from the air.

Out through the door, allowing her only a glimpse of the poor lost soul they were leaving behind in her place. The old vampire woman dressed in her clothes, hiding beneath her veil, jerky in her movements, wandering about the room like a lunatic trying to understand her asylum. Trying to understand why the fat lycan was ripping the drapes from the window. Whimpering as the sunlight began to edge between the slats.

_They were burning her…_

…and in her head, Reinette tried to scream _. She tried to warn the woman._ _Call for the guards. Call Rena._

_Lucian._

_Oh blood,_ she thought.  _Lucian._

 _She should have warned him._  Again, she tried to scream. Kicking and biting in Kolya's arms until he covered her mouth. The finger-less vampire looking scared out of his wits as he readied more of the drug, helping Kolya to press the cloth over her face. Plunging her into darkness.

Her last thought filled with terror. Anger _…_ and a dull sense of regret.  _For it had only just occurred to her that after seven months of railing at the fates, s_ _he had finally lost the damned wager…_

_…and the only one who cared would never know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference note: You are probably all aware of this, but just in case you're not, in the last two chapters, the name Persephone is referencing the Greek myth where Hades (God of the Underworld) kidnaps Persephone (daughter of Demeter, goddess of the harvest) and carries her off to the Underworld.
> 
> Then an age later, Zeus sends a rescue party, but at that point, it turns out Hades tricked Persephone into eating a few pomegranate seeds (and according to the Fates, whoever eats in the Underworld stays in the Underworld; at least for a few months of the year).
> 
> The real question is, was Persephone tricked into eating that food or did she know exactly what she was doing? (Because Reinette is seriously starting to question that myth after finding out that the monster she thought was a monster is actually kind of nice when he's not being an absolute ass.)
> 
> For more detail, look up the Rape of Persephone.


	54. A Death in the Night

**Chapter LIV: A Death in the Night**

_Thirty minutes later._

For Lucian, it began with little warning. A flickering light on the horizon; the smoke starting to rise before the bells began tolling in the distance. The faint sound of horses screaming for mercy as though the devil himself had left a calling card. The unyielding beast between his legs rearing at the sound. The touch of his heels spurring its blood as he wrenched the bridle back towards the house. Cursing the hills for not letting him pass more quickly into hell.

Cursing the heat that always seemed to follow him. His evening ride bringing with it not peace but the sight of his home burning from afar. _How could his home be on fire?_ The entire eastern wall of the stable-house enveloped in flame. Feeling his anger outweighed by fear; his dignity evaporating like the skin burning from his wife's face. So that by the time he reached his home, he was more animal than human. Tearing into the dismount, almost killing his horse in the process.

They would all burn if he did not reach the stable-house in time. The flames already licking the walls, threatening to devour the household of Kerr. _Everything he had built and buried in the past four hundred years about to go up in smoke if they could not fight this blaze._

He could see the panic in their eyes. The horses fleeing the stalls with their tails on fire. The soldiers and servants sprinting back and forth, hauling water across the yard. Soot on everyone's faces so that for once he could blend with his own people. _A worker. A beast._ Watching his flesh starting to blacken. Hearing himself shout for Thomas to issue an order. _Get them out. All of them. Ready to evacuate. Ready to leave through the catacombs._

The smells in the air speaking of lightning and thunder. But the air remaining dry. The hell raging below for a time that had lost its precision. The seconds escaping him for the first time in centuries. _Estimation_. That was all the fire had left him. The general sense that three quarters of an hour had passed in heat and sweat and smoke until finally he felt it…

…rain

The clouds roiling above them as the heavens parted. Lending their favour to the den. Raining down on them in a torrent as the stones became scorched, the ground black with ash, starting to ripple with heat and water. A number of the young ones hooting as the fire began to expire. Losing themselves in the downpour, clapping him on the shoulder, still ignorant of the crime that had transpired here. _The blackened doors of the stable. The broken lock on the ground. The darker portion of his intellect able to spot the crime simply for having committed it so many times._

_Arson._

_The danger still lingering beneath his weariness. For the adrenaline had passed. The animal starting to sense the weakness of man._ His hands starting to slip on his knees, feeling the sweat drip onto the wet cobblestones. His body asking for rest. Asking for respite. Asking for his drug so he could stop the inevitable. Stop his skin from itching. His hands from twitching. The Change that would creep up on him if he did not control it. Taking the seconds that he needed to think and plan. Assess and resolve anything that might be an obstacle…

…and then he started.

"McNally."

It was the first lycan in his line of sight. Trying not to bark up his lungs, he used his hands to sign the rest. _Firearms. Ammunition. Enough for two contingents. Major and minor._

Soaked to the skin, McNally ducked his head, already sprinting for the main doors without looking back. He might be a wainwright, but they were all soldiers in this war. In a few seconds, he'd be in the hall, shoving one of the carpets aside. _Rifles. Pistols. Revolvers. Grenades. If you could dream of a firearm, it was down there; and with the full moon in two days, he was taking no chances_ _…_

"Arlington."

"Sir."

He was still signing. Too fast to waste his breath. _Take the major. Question the guards. Question anyone who might have been in the vicinity when it started. Send two after the horses. Find a scent if you can._

Arlington bowed his head and moved. His eyes gleaming for the moment it took him to see his way. Taking the men he needed. Following his order and leading his assignment into the shadows. Through lighting and thunder, they would spread across the grounds, combing the dark until they found something.

"Sir!"

Taken off-guard, Lucian turned, with the same reflex, catching the barrel of a rifle in his hand. _Winchester 1895._ Ordered last year and rapidly gaining a reputation among his peers as his favourite gun. _Two-piece lever action. Non-detachable box magazine. Five cartridges_ _…_ _and it might have been four if he had dropped the blasted thing._ Biting his tongue, he checked the magazine, released the safety, and then shouldered the gun. _He could yell at McNally later._

Beckoning with his free hand, he touched his elbow twice and then tapped his shoulder, side-stepping back towards the stable-house. The signal was clear. _Minor contingent. Track and shadow._

His last order barely requiring a look before Raze had the right of it. The lycan smelling of exhaustion, but signing his acknowledgment. His hands still scored from carrying thrice his weight in water. Foregoing exhaustion for orders by rolling off his back, loping to the stable doors and taking a stance on the right side.

 _It was how it had been_ _…_ _and how it would always be. He on the left and Raze on the right. One with the firearm and the other with claws, ready to climb the walls and drop while the shots rang out._ The two of them poised on either side. The rest of the contingent fanning out, creeping around the back of the building and edging along the walls in silence. Peering through cracks and holes. Tracking and shadowing the ground. Sniffing for clues among the ashes.

Every breath making him want to cringe. _Making him want to flee from this place. But soldiers did not flee. Their knees were steady and their hands did not shake. Not for cinders nor for flesh._ He and Raze waiting until McNally gave them the all clear. _The roof intact. The beams unlikely to fall._

 _It was a long shot, but in all the chaos, the perpetrator might still be in the stable-house._ Two counts of three before they glanced at one another and then nodded. Kicking the stable-doors open, the one aiming the rifle, swiftly moving from stall to stall. The other darting up the walls and targeting the area from above. The area deemed secure but empty in under eight seconds. _Eight horses dead. Two of them burnt to a crisp while the others had suffocated._

_Clear._

He heard Raze drop into one of the other stalls, his feet barely touching the ground before he started investigating the dead. Touching each horse on its neck, checking the burnt ones for signs of an accelerant. _The smell of paraffin. The_ s _hort lengths of rope trampled under their hooves. The tracks milling about without reason until they began to merge. The horses released, one by one, in order to start the fire._

Lucian said nothing and then crouched onto his haunches, sniffing one of the lengths of rope. _Seeking a scent that was not ash or charred flesh. Seeking anything that could give him a reason._ Raze now rooting around the stalls, searching with the same intuition. _The why of the matter more intriguing to them than the how._

Letting Raze take the tack room, he let his steps take him north down the horse's alleyway. Stepping around the dead, observing without touching anything. Taking a glance in each stall, keeping himself occupied with the details of what did not fit.

_He had been in this stable-house at precisely four o'clock, just before the evening ride. The stalls clean and the horses stabled. He had spoken to Henry Fulligan, untied Our Lady of Sixteen Hands, groomed the horse, tacked her up, and for once avoided being bitten. Given her lack of discipline, she likely would have perished if he'd not taken her out._

Every stall that he passed contained the same elements. _Feed. Water bucket. Salt. Bedding._ Everything evaporated, singed or damaged, but making sense given the environment.

_Except for that._

He stopped in his tracks and then turned to his left, catching the top of the stall door with his free hand and leaning against it. Staring into the stall and processing what he saw. _Feed. Water bucket. Salt. Charred bedding._ The scene sitting unwell with him for there was a third container here that did not fit: a charred coal-bucket lying on its side against one of the brick walls.

Letting go of the door, he stepped into the stall, casually slinging the rifle over his shoulder. Less interested in whether that was the safest course of action than over what was in the bucket. His hand reaching out, turning the open end towards him so he could look inside. Its contents comprising of a second, far smaller, iron clue. The odd piece in this puzzle.

A poker-iron bent in half around a paraffin canister. The poker-iron looking oddly-familiar for it was something he had handled only this morning. He could still feel the weight in his hand, the grade of metal, the fine-printed 'EW' giving him the precise location from where it had come. _The East Wing._ The hair on his arm rising as he began to feel an itch on his shoulder. _The sense that he had missed something. Something very_ _…_

 _Very_ _…_

… _wrong._

And then he turned, hearing Taylor before he saw him. The doors swinging on the hinges as the young lycan sprinted the length of the stable-house. Skidding to a halt and thrusting a rain-spattered card up before him. Trying to speak around the ash in his lungs. "Sir," he said. Like all of them, he was trying to catch his breath. "We were…we were rounding the horses up, sir. They…" He coughed. "…they tied it to one of the saddles."

_They tied it to one of the saddles._

_Tied a card to a horse that would run the length of the countryside, giving them time before it was caught, while they finished putting out this fire_ _…_ _which was a decoy._ Feeling remarkable blank for the first time that evening, he snapped the card out of Taylor's hand and stared at it. _The calling card of the Blackmarks._ The 'X' scrawled in blood across the back. The name ' _Jeanne-Antoinette de la Roche'_ printed across the front.

_Reinette._

_His mind able to quantify only three possibilities. That if Reinette was dead, then Rena had failed in her task. If Rena was dead, then Reinette was dead. And the only circumstance in which they were both alive was a very slim one._

He hesitated. His eyes targeted on those of his subordinate. Raze standing tall at the far end of the stable-house. His expression carved of stone, knowing what had happened and caring less for the crime than the house that had been compromised. _Blackmarks openly attacking within the house of Kerr. Lycan legislation now giving him no choice but to have Lucian escorted off the premises until the house was secure. As of this moment, Raze would be taking charge of the entire investigation. While Lucian would have to go underground._

Rather than register that fact, Lucian turned the card around. Holding it up so Raze could see the name. Because they _both_ knew that until _he_ knew…

…he was not going anywhere. _Not on his life._

And whether it was the act of showing the card or the scent of warning he was giving off, regardless of the catalyst, it caused Raze to stop in his tracks. A slight crease appearing on the man's brow. A crease that said little to most people, but spoke volumes to him. _The question of why they had to do this every time. Why he could not come quietly_ _…_ _for once._ The crease disappearing as Raze raised his hand…cautiously. Almost in peace before taking another step towards him.

Taylor starting to smell unseasonably ripe, as though it was only just occurring to him that he was standing between two alphas and that, out of those two, only _two_ had their hackles up. Before the boy could move, Lucian's claws shot out, catching him by the shoulder. Forcing the boy to remain exactly where he was. _Don't_ _…_ _anyone_ _…_ _move_ , he thought.

Raze exhaled…and then took _another_ step towards him. _He understood that this was hard,_ his eyes said. _But they were operating under the rules of curfew and safety. He had no other choice._

Lucian eyed the step…and then dropped the card, reacting before his subordinate could. Slinging the rifle off his shoulder, shooting Raze in the calf muscle, shoving Taylor into Raze and then vaulting off the boy's back. _A bullet would only slow him down for a few minutes._ His feet barely hitting the ground before he was sprinting past the stable doors. Colliding with a soldier, shoving the man aside with a snarl, as he turned for the main hall, bursting through the front doors at a dead run.

 _Rena._ Three flights of stairs. _Rena would not abandon her_. Twists and turns until he reached the last staircase. Distantly aware that Raze was following him. That an hour had passed since the fire. That whatever crime had occurred in this house was already done.

"Reeeena!"

The silence too deep as he bellowed her name again, his voice echoing up the staircase. For once, uncaring if anyone heard. Looking behind him for her eyes, the yellow eyes always perched in the dark. The temptation to yell her name a third time swallowed by the sight of the eastern wing.

The walls scratched to pieces, the pianoforte slashed in two. The room hung with a thick yellow haze that stung the air like poison. A scent made of a thousand scents. The perpetrators masking their crime with a series of shut doors and windows. The smell coupled with a numbing realisation that made him want to vomit. There was blood on the carpet. _Black blood as though an animal had been skinned here._ His breath starting to move faster. His eyes starting to burn in the haze. He dropped to his knees, trying to see beyond it, trying to see what his nose could not.

"Reeena!"

_She was not answering._

With a growl of frustration, he began to crawl forward. The smoke burning into his skin. Using his hands to find his way, pushing the broken furniture out of his path. The air starting to waver around him. Like a carousel that would not stop, turning, trying to find his way, trying to find her scent among the wreckage. His skin starting to crawl beneath the air.

 _Rena_.

He called her name again. Only this time, there was no sound. He could feel his throat closing up. The rasp making him spasm. The poison starting to turn his blood. Paralyze his limbs. His head starting to pound before he realised someone was grasping his forearm. _Raze._ A cloth covering his mouth, gripping his arms, and forcing him up onto his knees. Raze's voice muffled like in the old days when they worked the mines…and his leg still bleeding.

_Hardly the time for an 'I told you so.'_

Staring more at the leg than Raze's face, Lucian was forced to nod in agreement. The act of stumbling to his feet taking far longer than he planned. His limbs refusing to budge until Raze jerked him up by the arms and over to the eastern balcony. The one struggling with the lock before the other broke the glass. The rain stinging their faces as they tumbled through to the outside. Hacking and coughing on their hands and knees for several seconds before they realised the nightmare was not yet over.

The carpet inside taking on a darker meaning, even as the rain continued to wash away the crime. Pungent pools of water streaming over the empty eyes and missing tongue of a red-faced child without a face. His eyes turning away in disgust, yet holding their course. Sickened by the sight, yet unwilling to take a step beyond relief. _A dull relief that it was not Sabine._

His teeth wanting to grow sharp again, wanting to find the rage. It lingered there beneath the surface. Waiting for him to crack so it could take over. Instead, breathing the cold, wet air until he could clear the poison from his lungs. Pressing his palms, almost in prayer, over his eyes before he sat back on his knees, taking in the rest of the horror.

Still searching for an answer. Latching on every piece of this broken carousel. _The signs of a struggle. The furniture scattered across the balcony. The cigarette butt washed clean upon the stones, making it hard to get a handle on the scent. But he was sure who had been smoking it._

_Rena._

_She had been here. She had tried to run. Tried to throw herself over the railing. The perpetrator striking her with an iron chair before she could make her escape._

He forced himself to stand, following her tracks through the rain-soaked balcony. _The red spattering across the table. The angle suggested a head wound._ Blood pooling into the stones before the victim rose to her knees. Crawling across the stones and onto the roof. Her hands smearing her path. Her blood trailing up and over the roof.

_Over the roof._

_She could be bleeding out on the ridge of this house; but if she had the stomach to stand, then she had the stomach to heal._ With his stomach starting to heave on itself, he turned his back on the roof. Looking at Raze and then indicating the roof. "Follow her."

Raze was limping, but he moved to block the glass doors. "Lucian…"

" _Raze_ …" For the sake of blood, he could put this in one of two ways. "…you need to move," he breathed. _It was as simple as that._

Raze stared at him. _Conflicted_. And then the man grimaced, the air punched with the scent of frustration before he stepped aside, holding the cloth out. Wet from the storm that followed him. The smell of charred stone and Raze's scent telling him to take it. _Take the cloth and see what happens. See where this choice takes you._

 _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_

He took it. His throat telling him he was making a mistake. Burning as he took five short breaths and then pressed the cloth to his mouth, diving back into the haze. Finding his way as quickly as he could through the room and down the hallway. The mirrors and lamps surrounded by haze, showing him as a beast in their reflection. Seeing Reinette's door in front of him and trying the handle.

 _Locked_.

_If it was locked, there was a chance they never made it this far._

Steeling himself, he shoved his shoulder against it…and then his back. Once, twice, and then thrice before he broke through. Falling onto the carpet and immediately kicking the door shut again, preventing the haze from following him. Coughing into his arm, and then pulling himself to his knees. _Reinette_. Scanning the room, seeking out the chairs and the fire. The desk with its books, the black drapes of the bed closed and thick enough to hold back the sun. Aiming to call out for her…to help her…to find her…

…and then letting the cloth fall to the carpet. His breath moving in and out of his lungs, burning his chest. Making him want to suck the shallow laugh back into his lungs. _Conscious of what he had just seen. Conscious of the fire dead in its hearth and the wind howling at her back. Every drop counting the seconds until she would crumble. Counting the seconds until he would have to acknowledge it._

The fear she must have felt; cornered and trying to escape her fate. Crawling away on her hands and knees, her skin cracked in a thousand places around the mark seared into her skin. _She had known death was coming and she had feared it._ Her veiled screams buried into her palms, though he could swear, he could still hear her screaming. This silent statue screaming for him to help her…this thing he had let into his world.

 _Why didn't you tell me..._ It was a fleeting thought. A thought he had yet to acknowledge for to his mind, the counting would never stop and as a result, he would never have to acknowledge it. The answer evading him, like a magpie chasing after a silver thread. The spirit flown, the body burnt, and the count telling him to move on quickly before he regretted his stay. His hand on the door before he found himself regretting his departure; the voice that told him that it was her departure rather than his that he was regretting.

Regret causing him to cross the room and crouch on his haunches. Staring at this thing that he had refused to touch all those months ago for reasons that seemed so foreign and yet familiar. This thing he had yet to acknowledge: that despite her status as a prisoner, a gamble, a chess piece on the field of his war, she had become a companion in misery. And that for the brief time he had known her, this creature...

...no.

This woman...

...had been intriguing to him. And for the sake of that: for the sake of that brief, miserable shadow she had brought to this hellish existence he called life, he needed to say something. His hand reaching up to touch her shoulder. _He needed to say the words...that he was sorry. That he should have been there. He should have protected her._

His breaths perfectly timed and his calm perfectly measured. Easy for him to say the words and walk away. Easy for him to have caused another death and regretted it for the time it took him to forget it.

It should have been easy—but the sound of rain grew distant. The statue wavering in front of him like boiling water on a hot stove. Like a bell tolling in the dark, a beast flinching at the sound, he heard the crack of a whip. The air growing crisp, burning its way through his lungs, coating his veins with charred blood. The haze weaving itself into the fabric of his skin.

His hand jerked back.

_Too late._

_o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_

His past swept over him like a torrent. The mask slipping away as he lost control of his scent. It sounded like a waterfall _._ An uncontrolled, wrenching torrent coming from his throat. But it was time, not water. It was the seconds before he woke from the memory. _The seconds between the before and the after._ Every heartbeat passing like an hour.

Knowing where he was and still...even in his mind...still unable to break free. Eyes darting first to the sun, to the sky, searching for an escape that was gone. Searching for some way to draw them back in time. Draw them into the seconds that fell before the memory. _Twelve seconds._ That was all he ever wanted. _Twelve seconds to remember her face as it used to be. Twelve seconds to hear her speak. Twelve seconds before she became a memory._ Her face forever etched into the stone of his consciousness.

His hell.

Not the moment of her death, but the twelve hours that came after. Twelve hours of watching her bake under the sun until he began to forget that she was dead. _That she had not always been a statue._ Eyes burnt out of their sockets. Skin blacker than night, turning harder and harder until she began to crack. Her hair falling out before noon. Watching each tendril turn to dust as the ash began to drift around her feet.

At the time, it occurred to him that he was going mad. That his tongue was getting dry after he started conversing with her during the fourth hour. No longer speaking by the eighth, only to howl in rage every time a crow landed on her face, pecking at her lips, searching for flesh where there was none.

_But it was enough._

He had seen this memory. He had been here, and he would leave it behind again. _His reality was not here. It was in London. The year was 1900. He was alive and she was not._ His throat sucking in air and his shoulders starting to hunch on the last word. Porcelain shattering on the floor and the sound making him cringe as he fought to break the cycle.

 _The chains that were not there. The cinders that were not falling from her head. None of it was here._ Blind, he reached out to the air beyond the chains, scrabbling for anything that was real, trying to pull himself from his knees. Trying to breathe. Trying to shove the memories back. Desperate now to find his way, he felt for the walls, finding and then hitting his head against the surface.

He just had to breathe. He just had to close his mind _…_ _to her voice, her name, and her face. Her face could not be here. Not while he lived in this world_ _…_ _not before he finished his task..._ Again, he hit his head against the wall. _Her face could not be here._ The same curse, over and over again, knocking his head back against the wall, willing himself to the present.

 _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_

It was the force of his head, not the mantra, that broke the memory. His head hitting the wall, and coincidentally, the wardrobe—for in truth it was _this_ structure he was hitting, not the wall—toppling over with a crash. The room solid, capable of absorbing the crash, yet incapable of staving off that natural order of things; that rule which dictated the fortitude of an inert object subjected to an external force. Even before his eyes could open, he could see what was happening.

She was disintegrating. Her torso collapsing into her waist, like an hourglass sucking on its last grain of sand. First her fingers, her palms, and then her hands breaking at the wrist and falling to the floor. _It was the moisture in the air_ _…_ _the smoke and the haze cooling the shell too quickly._ Dust clouds rising into her veil, which in turn, fell away from the back of her skull. The shoulders keeping the neck upright for a full three seconds before the head toppled over, like a corpse without a noose.

Years later, he considered how events might have transpired had the veil not fallen first. _Her lips revealed to him, screaming and silent. Her eyes squinted shut against a light that burned into flesh._ His breath moving faster again, his skin growing tight. _Conscious of what he was seeing. Conscious that it had been too long since his last dose of laudanum. That he had imagined things in the past._

Using the tip of each claw to drag himself to his knees, he crouched over the few sections of statue that remained. The features completely obliterated by the fall, making him wonder if he had imagined it. The rest of the statue reeking of ash, but drawing enough of a question that he found himself crouching over the torso. The neck. Her veil. Scraps of burnt clothing. _They all belonged to her._

 _He was not mad._ He had seen that face before it dissolved…and though the world might doubt, he had not hallucinated this death. He had not imagined the smell, and though his time with Reinette had been brief, he had not forgotten her face. _The seahawk. The cheeks sunken, but the bones high and lean, vicious even on the cusp of death. Her jaw sharper than this corpse who had taken her place._

His hands covered in the foulest of scents as he began to search through the ashes for her pendant. _Gone._ Leaving the ash, he began to turn her quarters inside out, searching for a trace of the burnt pendant. _Where was it?_ The dresser, the desk, opening drawers, flinging books in his search, tearing through the wardrobe. _Gone, gone_ _…_

 _…_ _gone._

With a growl, he found himself striding to the bedroom door and wrenching it off its hinges. The act striking him as odd. Making him uncertain whether a second growl had occurred before or after he chose to throw the battered door out of the already-broken window. He was acting impulsively, and yet it felt right. _As though his skin were a second coat. His impulses loose, his shoulders starting to hang. For the first time in hours, he felt right in his skin, as though every atom had fallen into place._

On a different night, a different moment, he might have checked himself at the door. He might have remembered what it meant when his mood went from rage to calm in the space of a minute. Calm and precise, his lungs moving faster, while the beast inside told him that he could function without the drug. _That he was higher than the drug._ With this thought repeating in his brain, he realised that he knew exactly what he needed to do. _He needed Raze to assemble a third contingent. This needed to become a hunt._

 _o_ _…_ _o_ _…_ _o_

Through the hallways, he went, out the balcony, and onto the roof. Tempted to bellow Raze's name, but choosing instead to stalk him. The trail fading with the rain, but still zig-zagging across the tiles, until it leaped out onto the stable-house. _Rena must have tracked the culprits. Followed their scent to the stable-house before they burned it._ The tiles below his hands still warm from their proximity to the fire. The rain cold on his back, streaming down on their heads and making him forget for a moment what he was hunting.

_Raze._

Raze was crouching on the edge of the roof like a giant gargoyle. Motionless with little ability to see beyond his particular point of view. Concise as ever. "The trail stops where the arson started." The stony exterior held nothing back. "Even with a wound, the council will suspect her of being involved in both murders."

"It wasn't Rena."

Raze gave him an eye. Suspicious. The kind of eye that questioned whether a drug addict with a penchant for shooting him in the leg ought to be deciding the terms of reality. "How are you certain?"

"Rena is not a Blackmark," he explained in the simplest of terms. Feeling the calm of his certainty. His exterior unfazed by the double vision he was seeing. Something was trying to snap behind his teeth, but he ignored it. His eyes glancing back towards the balcony, the small body lying in the corner. _But he was in control. Rena would never had done something like that. Not to a child._ "…and whoever targetted Reinette had no intention to kill. Only to replace."

He had forced the last word quickly past his tongue, like a pair of dice on a wheel, before reasonable conjecture could take over. The instinct to calculate the odds of finding her in one piece starting to wash away with the ash on his shirt.

 _The scent card pointed to the Blackmarks, but the murder of a lycan child failed to reconcile with their mandate. His ability to reason telling him there was a second party involved. One that understood the significance of a blood-seer._ The face of each council-member turning into a wooden mask as he thought on their loyalty. _Had he pushed them too far during the Gathering_ _…_ _and if this was the first sign of rebellion, how long before he found himself with a silver knife in his back?_

As usual, it was the act of muttering to himself that always seemed to prompt a greater capacity for tolerance on the part of Raze. A significant pause occurring before Raze again spoke, like a peaceful orderly speaking to his favoured lunatic. "You suspect the council?"

"I suspect everyone _…_ " _It was neither an affirmation or a denial. Simply a fact._ His eyes trained on the horizon, the grounds, and then the house for exactly three seconds each before he turned on his heel. Changing the subject again before he could regret sharing his suspicions. "…for a third contingent, Raze, how many can we spare?"

Hard to tell where Raze's scowl began. "The third will not be necessary, Lucian."

"It will be if the scents are moving or divided. A contingent for each scent, then divide them by location." He counted them on a hand. "House, grounds, catacombs. One of the trails will lead to quarry whether it be ash or flesh."

"I say again, the third will not be necessary." His subordinate chose his words with care, keeping his eyes on the stables below. "The house and catacombs can be searched by the minor. The major will take the grounds."

"Thereby contaminating the third scent and losing your quarry," countered Lucian. His mind like a chained animal, struggling against the void, the emptiness that came before a hunt. No longer a thrilling adventure, but an onus. A responsibility that he had let slide. _Something Raze would never have allowed to happen._

Raze who dared to look him in the eye. "With all due respect, Lucian, I am not sending an entire contingent after ash. The first murder alone takes precedence in this circumstance."

"The first murder is a byproduct," he said with a dismissive wave. Suddenly angry…disgusted even at the way his oldest friend was trying to sway him from a path that held purpose. _But why could Raze not see it?"_

 _ _Raze who was a stickler for rules. Raze who was still under the impression that he was losing it. That it made more sense to watch the back of a madman than crack a whip on this investigation.__ His ability to refer to the child as a byproduct causing even Raze to give him a pained look.

"I am sorry, Lucian." Despite the sentiment, Raze seemed intent on building a fire on his hopes. "There will be no investigation, there will be no movement, until you have been removed from the premises. The den has been infiltrated and by order of the lycan council _…_ "

"Start the investigation, Raze, or I  _swear_  I will order it myself."

"Try it and I will inform the lycan council of your actions." Raze had unleashed himself from his crouch and drawn himself to his full height. "In the event of any emergency, any hint that your den has been compromised, according to the fourth amendment of the Horde Duties Act of 1793, it is my first duty to ensure the longevity of the Horde by escorting you to a…"

"How dare you threaten me with parliament _,_ " he scowled. _That damned law having less to do with his security than Auguste's predecessor trying to guillotine his head._ And then he seethed, forced to concede on that account. His curse taking much of the rancour before he was able to spit out the only word that could simultaneously agree while expressing the opposite. " _Fine_."

His statement going unanswered for Raze had not the stomach for such a victory. The lycan seeming to retreat upon himself, offering his words like a rock upon Abel's head. "You were the one who signed it, old friend, not me."

"And I will abide by it."

"When?"

" _Now._ "

"Your word?"

"You _have_ it," he said. The last of the thunder let lose with his final breath, leaving behind only the rain and the dull sense that his bones were straining against his skin. And then he turned on Raze. His claws wrapped around the man's throat, his last instructions simple for he would not be returning to this house for some time. "Find out whose child that was. What she was doing here, where Rena has gone, why Reinette was taken, and _how_ _the hell_ …" _This was a simple one_. "…someone managed to infiltrate this den _before dusk_ _…"_ _The whole countryside had to be hearing him now._ _"…_ without a single soul being aware of it!"

Raze did not flinch. Like a weight forever carrying him on his back, holding him to a course as Atlas held the world, he waited, straining for air until his neck was released. And then he retreated, bowing his head, moving before the rage that was in both their scents turned into a reaction. The shadow retreating across the roof, so that finally, Lucian was alone again. Able to let the mask drop from his scent. Tightening the leash on an animal that was throwing itself against a cage, clawing against the back of his eyes now…

…yet he was nothing if not a creature of control. His hands threatening to slip before he took a stronger grasp on a ledge that had been weathered for centuries, forcing his rage to stand down. For the first time, wary of the hope that was still growing in his stomach. Sick that he could be hopeful while crouching only sixteen meters from a skinned child. Sick that he lived in a world where the scent could only faze him for a moment.

But his attentions had moved beyond the dead for he was _sure_ that the living were still out there. Rena with a wound to her head…and Reinette…either leading her own escape or fighting her kidnappers. So convinced of the fear he instilled in those around him, he'd never stopped to think of what else she might have been afraid of. The other circumstances that could have driven her to fear this morning. His intentions, his impulses still leading him by the nose, telling him to follow the three scents. _The card left by the Blackmarks. The blood-scent of Rena. The trail of Reinette_ _…_

The notion of her betrayal making him more angry than he would have thought. _Perhaps for the trouble it caused him to believe it._ Touching his jaw to his fists and looking out into the night. Troubled by what he saw. The rain washing away the trail. Scouring the night clean and giving their enemies a greater chance of safe passage. _He was losing this battle._

_But he would be damned before he let them go without a hunt._


	55. The Curse of Silver

**Chapter LV: The Curse of Silver**

It was here that one would expect events to take their course. _An enemy. A hunt. A reason to scale the walls of this domestic prison._ With his back to the pouring rain, his hair and clothing starting to cling, Lucian mounted the iron railing, knowing that he would not slip. Waiting for a head to pass below him before he dropped from the turrets, lending his body to the air for the two and half seconds before he landed. Like a stray cat on his hind legs.

Glancing to the right and left before ducking into the murky shadows, entering the main hall in search of an arsenal for his hunt. Knives, guns, bullets, blood rations. The bare minimum of what he would need before leaving for the safe-house which he had no intention of entering.

Instead he found himself face to face with Bess. She was a silhouette in the servant's hall, her eyes red and the hair falling from its knot. _Always, she had a way of finding him when he least wanted to be found._

He pushed his way past her. _Too far gone to hear anything but the hunt. The trail. The scent drawing him forward. Hundreds of smells. Blood, fire, dust, rain, ash, vinegar, salt, wine…thousands of trails leading deeper into the house. Down the stairs. Towards the outdoors._ Towards an edge that no one else could see.

She called out to him again. "Luka," she said then. _Luka please._

_She had not called him Luka in over thirty years._

And so he stopped.

Turning his head to look at her. Regretting the act for it left him wide open to knowledge that he had no desire to hear. Words that made the blood rush into his head, as though he were seeing the world through a red mist. His control unaffected by what she was saying. Words that existed without meaning, separate from the sentences that harboured them. Through logic alone, he deduced that something 'terrible' had happened. That they had looked 'everywhere.' That 'she' was gone. 'Missing' from the household. 'Missing' from the roll call. That no one had seen her 'since sunset.'

It occurred to him afterwards that in spite of the topic having much to do with his missing ward, it was his name that he found most relevant. _The use of it._ The strange thought of Elizabeth Fulligan being distraught enough to call him anything less than 'Mr. Kerr' in front of the household staff.

One would think this might have compelled him to move. Surveying what havoc Fate had decided to make of his world. This chaos that would not stop, when in the midst of that chaos, he began to wonder why Bess was speaking German when she so often preferred English these days. Why she was surrounded by her boys, the three lycans who kept her safe in the household. _James, Thomas and Liam._ Surrounding her as though they feared what he would do. These boys, now men, whom he had charged to keep her safe almost three decades ago when she returned to him with a married name.

The chaos failing to make sense as he looked upon the others. Those who were standing beyond the boys and behind Elizabeth Fulligan, these guardians who were so willing to let this distraught woman take the fall for the disappearance of his ward. A weeping governess. A stoic riding instructor. A tutor hanging his head. No silver in their eyes, barely any lycan in their blood; for they were nothing short of excellent in their references. Their faces pallid, these people he could barely name let alone recognise. _How could he have left her with them,_ he wondered.

_Sabine._

_Small, grey-eyed Sabine whose hair was red. Whose mother had died far from home in a vampire raid with a silver knife speared through her eye. The body burned by the Lycan Registry before the blood was dry. The daughter of his daughter, for how could she be anything else when their smells were so closely matched. Though he had fought it...though he had avoided referring to her as anything other than his ward, Sabine was of his blood._

_And they had lost her._

He asked the question again, though he could not recall asking it in the first place. _How could they lose her?_ The lightning showing their faces cowering in fear, the thunder hiding their frenzy as Liam shouted for them all to run. Thomas having the sense to lock Bess in one of the silver-plated rooms, the only one who suspected there was more to the lycan-master's expression than mere curiosity. That there was a reason his face was beginning to harden and it was not for an abundance of calm. James, the one who called for Raze as the lycan-master's spine began to crack in a dozen places. All attempt at reason met with a blood-wrenching growl that made it clear he had passed beyond the point of shooting people in the leg.

His skull changing into that of a monster. Like a beast from the gates of hell. His certainty growing with every clap of thunder that he must have offended a higher power. _That he was cursed. That everything he touched became cursed. The logical side of his intellect no longer trying to wrestle with the concept, for he understood now what was causing it_. His history, that origin to his troubles, that first century of war when he decided in all his twisted glory to curse the abomination that brought about his wife's demise. Cursing the water of her grave and then refusing to think thereafter of the dried blood he had found among her ashes.

The thought of this abomination's blood being an instigator for his refusal to breed, his decision to bed or scorn based entirely on the fertile scent of a woman's skin; the tempting fragrance of a moon cycle at its cusp. Centuries of whore-housing and drunkenly behaviour eventually lending itself to the theory that smell is affected by liquor. His first child dead before it could be born and the second a faceless ghost behind a letter that had been folded too many times. _It was his fault,_ he realised. _This tendency for his offspring to find themselves in peril._

_It was his curse. His actions._

_His fault._

The rest of his evening unclear for it was here, at this precise moment, that he lost himself. His control. His reason. His perspective. The lack of his drug, the loss of Rena, Reinette…and now Sabine finally triggering a voice that could no longer recognise the difference between friend and foe. A voice that had become inhuman.

The mindless cries of a wolf tearing through the halls of the London den, searching for prey that was no longer there. The beast breaking through brick and mortar and glass, clawing up the stone walls and aiming to howl on the ramparts, only to be shot down by a well-placed silver bullet. His pack finally able to corner the beast in a western drawing room where it was seen licking the wounds on its right leg. Pacing on three paws, baring its teeth at an empty fireplace before it collapsed. The daze that was silver, blue, and red finally turning to black.

o…o…o

_Elsewhere._

For Reinette, her brief period without consciousness had served to teach her far less about the dangers of substance-abuse than the habitual nature of a bad situation evolving into a far worse one. The chloroform had not lasted long, her kidnappers were not a dream, and their escape into the fireplace had given her a new reason to thrash Lyosha into the next century.

It was a mistress corridor. A nook behind the fireplace for the use of a lady of different times. One that required entrance between walls for whatever foul reason he had concocted for having such a thing. There were spy-slits along the wall. Her brief views of his opulent prison giving her some insight into the nature of lycans hiding in plain sight. She saw shelves covered in books. A stained-glass window filled with a menagerie of birds and a marble face that seemed to move in the dark. The haze creeping around suits of armour and paintings of flora and fauna. The candle-light betraying a rich tapestry of colours that might have suited her in another life.

If only the tour had been under more reasonable circumstances. Her limp body carried through the corridor and down a long set of stairs. Cobwebs floating in the stale air that had not been touched in so many years. She heard rust biting on the rattle of keys like bones. The doors unlocked and the journey ending in an earthen scullery, far below ground and lacking in light or fresh air. It was there that the chloroform wore off completely. The scullery turning into the catacombs and the mistress corridor showing itself for an escape route.

She could no longer see the paunch-faced woman in front of them, crawling on all-fours, but she could hear her. The sound of weeping starting to grate against her ear, for she had seen no cause yet for this woman to be weeping. Traitorous. Her senses now trying to find where the fingerless vampire was carrying Sabine. Strands of her hair wrapped around his head like a wildman wearing the skin of a fox.

It had been a shock to see her. Slumped against the vampire's back, the child was gagged and tied for the long crawl. The rope holding small purpose for they could have left her and she would not have moved. Her face showing a vacancy that was spattered with blood. Eyes that had chosen not to see whatever had scarred her into this state of compliance. As though she had hidden in a field of red poppies and would not come out until the nightmare was over.

Unable to crane her neck any longer, she took pains then to breathe through her gag, trying not to wince over every rock and bone digging into her back. Holding her limbs stiff as she felt herself being half carried and half dragged along the earth. The size of the tunnels familiar to her, but the smell deeper and danker than any portion she had ever crawled or walked through. Kolya on his knees, towering above her with his hand snaked around her back like a sweating manacle.

"You are safe now," he said, looking down at her with a sweetness that made her ill. Reminding her of Paris and the days when she had known him for a murderer, but failed to see him as a threat. His smile so open but his gums now showing above his teeth. "Safe for all of us…" he said. "…you will see."

This glowing sentiment of how she 'would see' expressed over a dozen times before they reached the end of the tunnel. Kolya radiating joy as he climbed out first and then pulled her out by the wrist, forcing her to walk in front of him, catching her whenever she stumbled. His gait growing longer and her wrists jerking ever farther past her waist.

His mind glazed by the thought of this miracle he expected to perform. Chiding her for being kidnapped thrice. For refusing to speak any tongue older than Russian, even if it would keep the masque for a while longer.

Their march taking them deeper into the tunnel. Deeper and farther away from her cage in the den. The harsh voice of her Mentor telling her to be thankful for she was a lady of the blood. Thankful for her youth and the memories that would soon be restored. Memories of Hrafn who would take her to the north where they would live as they had always lived. She forever fleeing and he forever chasing her like the sun swallowing the moon.

Her thoughts growing dull as she continued to march. Conscious that it was no longer her Mentor she was hearing. But a quieter sound. A memory of laughter.

Dry like the pages of an old book. Her ears wanting to turn for she could swear she could hear him beside her. His voice deep as he read the words in Latin, translating each sentence before he spoke it out loud. Turning the pages one by one...and then abruptly closing the book. Rising to his feet with a stretch and counselling her to either heal faster or die, for he had neither the time nor the patience to read Hawthorne. Her throat tempted to laugh in response. At odds with the sorrow in her heart. The regret she felt on this long march towards the surface.

 _Because it would not happen._ He would never read to her. He would not call her 'Nette when they were alone. He would never rest his hand on her back, touching the hairs at the nape of her neck. Curving his arm around her spine and drawing her close. Close enough to breathe the skin of her breasts, to feel the tautness of muscle. A memory from a dream. A death toll for a life unlived.

_Lyosha._

Eyes wide, she felt every hair on her skin rise...and then with her heart beating, she jerked her wrists away from Kolya. Turning back towards Sabine, back towards her cage, and finding her waist caught by an iron grip. Fighting against it. Clawing her nails into his arms. Kolya pulling her back and turning her forward to march.

_She would not._

Her knees choosing to fall rather than march, the act of falling causing Kolya to stumble for having to drag her forward. Her skirts starting to billow in the mud. The intensity of her flight forcing him to slow down for every rock she gripped and every nail she raked across the ground. Finally coming to a stop when she would no longer budge from a root. Her wrists tied, but her fingers digging deep into the wood, holding it as though it were a rope on a churning sea.

Sabine watching her struggles from afar with only a passive loll of the head. The fingerless vampire too petrified to approach for he could sense that there was some question to her allegiance. Her captor choosing then to release his grip from her waist, instead pressing his thumbs down on her wrists, squeezing until she released her hold. Gently pulling her to her feet. "We go up." He said softly, touching her hair and then smoothing it down with a smile _._ "Not down."

She slapped him.

Or tried to.

Her wrists still tied, he caught her by the fists, treating her like a lost soul that had forgotten her way. Pulling her up a second time, no longer letting her walk but carrying her. "We go up," he said again. This time louder. Sure of himself. Unwilling to see her struggles as anything more than a twig flowing against a current. Small and weak against the inevitable. She was going up…not down. _They all were_. Her anger starting to churn as she determined then whose fault it was. _For it was not she who had built the cage. It was Lyosha._

_Damn him for letting them go._

o…o…o

_Three hours later. Back in the London Den..._

Lucian was pacing in the Change Quarters. He had broken chairs. A table. A mahogany bedstead. Out of anger or principle, every piece of furniture surrounding him was now in pieces or crackling in the fire. Curtains aside, it was a glorified cage on the bottom of the lycan den. The outer door made of iron…and the inner door welded between sixteen bars of silver-coated iron. _As though a velvet curtain could mask the brutality of a lycan Change._

His breath moving faster than it should have been. His hands calloused and failing to heal after his foray through the den. _No matter._ He snapped another chair leg and whipped it across the room. Breathing in…and out. Unable to find a…a means of…feeling…better.

"Guaaard!"

He shoved his shoulder against the bars, ignoring the hiss of his flesh starting to seethe. Ignoring it until the silver forced him to relinquish his attack. The stench forcing him to limp a few steps back, covering his nose. Steeling himself before again slamming his fist into the metal. "Guaard," he barked again.

A small window on the outer door sliding open to reveal the face of Aron. _Finally._ The stupid lout saluting sharply before bending forward to look through the guard-hole. "Sir," he said.

"Key."

"I have orders, sir."

"Give me the key, Aron." The warning was there, but the threat considerably less daunting with the limp. A silver bullet lodged in his kneecap, and the wound starting to fester. _Raze had every right to shoot him in the leg, but he was going to ruin Singe for leaving in the bullet._

"Orders, sir."

"Is Raze out there?"

"Not yet, sir," he said. "Can I fetch you anything, sir?"

With a grimace for an answer, Lucian hurled a dented pewter goblet at the bars. _In the past, he had thought himself kind to throw Reinette in a lavish prison; but for all the comfort, he was finding this worse than a plain one_. But there were losses to count. His knee threatening to buckle as he ventured closer to the wall. "My ward," he said, speaking in earnest despite the anger. _The most recent Change having tired him enough to have brought him back to his senses. Slightly lessening the impulse to hurt a great multitude of people._ "Sabine. Have they found her?"

"No, sir."

"Leads?"

"I don't know, sir."

He growled. "Well then _find_ me someone who knows." The ache in his leg drawing more than a grimace, but the order doing the trick.

Aron bowed his head before saluting, "Yes, sir." The window sliding shut followed by the sound of boots sprinting down the hall. A door opening and closing before the soldier passed up the stairs and into silence. The Change quarters on the lowest level of the lycan den, far enough from the main floor that even a hound would not wake to hear him.

 _He needed to get out of here._ The blood still dripping from his right knee and the pain too excruciating to withstand his fingers in the wound. His limp finally coaxing him to the edge of the wall where he could lean for a spell; tired from the night without memory. Tired of being helpless to do anything. The sweat on his forehead starting to drip. He shifted over, easing himself onto his back for the sake of the cold floor. Avoiding the carpet. The room starting to swelter, making the headache worse. Making him acknowledge the warning Singe had given him.

He was withdrawing. _The worst possible time._ All three of them missing or dead now and the words of that vision seeming to pound in his ears. _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm. Drink, she will not, for light bears the darkness, the cold inside, the creature that is not among us. Eat, she will for her crime. Hunger without end. Grief without fury._ Seven months ago, Reinette had warned him of the vision after tasting Sabine's blood. _But what did it mean? What could it possibly mean for one so young?_

His considerations short-lived as his stomach began to roil. The Change making him sick. The silver stopping the Change, and his strength fighting the silver. Sooner or later, one or the other would fail. His control only half in place, so that by the time his prison-window slid open again, he was clawing at the walls. Six…seven…no, eight of his incisors lying in a pool of blood. All of them growing back at an excruciating pace.

"Singe," he growled towards the window. "…you flaming piece of…"

The scent hit him before he finished the insult.

_Raze._

With the sound of a key turning, the prison door opened. A shadow blocking the light. His subordinate ducking his head to pass through the shadow and into his prison. Silent in his manner and unwilling to speak first. The despair in his scent, the fact that he was standing here at all, speaking volumes about how lost they were in this hunt for Sabine.

"Sabine?"

Raze shook his head.

He squinted…and then shut his eyes. _Trying not to remember the sight of that faceless child._ "They took her?"

There was a curt nod.

_No._

_No…no, no_ , he thought, pulling himself to his knees. _Why was this happening…_ He reached for his head…and then slammed his fist into the ground. Holding it in. Using his arm to shrug off the sickness in his stomach. _Shrug it off…and deal,_ he decided. Looking at the back of his hand and then wiping the blood off his mouth.

"Open the door," he said.

"No."

His skin was starting to writhe. "Then take out the bullet."

As usual, it was the quiet and dangerous beginning of what could only resolve itself with an explosive argument. _Rage his closest companion in times of despair, despite the initial calm that often preceded the damage. The logic. The method behind his madness._

Raze who always knew the flavour of his observations, regardless of any preceding calm, seemed to be doing battle with himself. His scent soon resolving itself into stone. He inhaled, putting his hands behind his back. His shoulders straight. Eyes front. Waiting for the explosion. "The bullet stays," he said. _His damned saint of a guardian._

As ever, it was an unlikely occurrence for Raze to string more than three words together in a sentence. He gritted his teeth…and then abruptly hit his head back against the wall. "I shot you with a _military_ -grade cartridge, Raze." He was trying to hold himself back from the bars. "Not blood-forsaken _silver_ covered in gangrene."

"That bullet is the only thing keeping you here, old friend."

He lost it. "Open the _fucking_ door, Raze!"

"No!"

The grit of Raze snapped through the air like a whip, as though his patience had just given way to an immense pressure from above. His scent suddenly filled with a vicious hostility that bordered on treason. Like a wolf marking its territory, as though there was some choice in what roles they were playing. _All the points of his life seeming to collide in the same moment. Like the days of Xristo's rebellion, when loyalty became dust in the face of a changing world._

The purpose of this silver cage starting to take on a darker meaning. _Why was he really in this cage,_ he wondered, with a narrowing eye, pulling himself off the one knee and onto his leg. Holding the bars, even as his hands began to sear. "Raze," he said. "…open the door or I swear I will end you."

The words seeming to draw a mark in the sand. He could smell a brimming resentment…all the tell-tale signs of a dogfight-in-waiting. _The bars in some ways a godsend, for between the two of them, wounded or not, he'd always been the least troubled by the notion of a fight._

"Is that all you have, Lucian?" Despite the threat in the air, it was quiet question. Raze who rarely voiced his thoughts, answering less like a brigand without wages than the old friend who'd saved his back countless times. Too tired to fight whatever it was that kept them on the same side… "Threats," the man whispered. "Poisonous words meant to rile…and anger…and hurt…" He looked exhausted. "How does it feel when you answer to no one?"

"Open…the damn…"

Before he could finish, there was a thunderous crash as Raze slammed his fist against the bars, forcing him to recoil. The exact spot where his hand had been. _Parts of his burnt flesh still sticking to the silver._ For a moment, the man towered above him. _A challenge in the making…and if not for the six hundred years they had shared, one might have thought there was murder in the air._ Raze taking several strides on his side of the bars, pacing in the manner of a wolf before the kill. Eventually, choosing a wall to lean against, crossing his arms. His eyes still narrowed…

…but the challenge retracted.

Lucian was on his back. Eyes wide as he stared into the face of rage. _Raze had challenged him._ He squinted, forcing himself to recover and rise to his feet. Using an arm to wipe blood from his throat. "Raze…if you have something to say to me, you'd damn well better say it now."

 _As usual, it was not the roar, but the quiet of Raze that made him wary._ Raze brooding over the stones at his feet…and then suddenly turning to face him. His voice soft. Pensive. Logical. His next words coming out of nowhere, spoken like an executioner before the dawn. "Where were you yesterday?"

"When?"

"Before the fire."

The hair on his neck started to rise. "What?"

"You heard me." Like a bull before the stag, the lycan took a menacing step towards the bars. His skin starting to tighten across the skull. Watching with silver eyes, as though he could see through every lie. "Before the fire, Lucian. Where were you?"

He made to speak…and then snarled, taking a step back from the bars. _What the hell did that have to do with Sabine,_ he thought. _Anger daring him to pace, even though his leg would not have it_. His heart starting to race again. The mind wanting to act, but the body forced to lean against the broken half of a table, watching his kingdom crumble from afar.

Raze had yet to blink. "Should I repeat the question?"

He jerked his head in disgust. "And what answer will satisfy you?"

Disappointment. Exhaustion growing in his scent. The retort caused Raze to close his eyes. _As though he could not do this for much longer._ "The truth," he said bitterly. "…and do not mistake my motives, old friend. This is no mutiny. I simply want…the truth."

_The truth?_

He felt one of his knees threatening to bend. Twisting his torso, instead using the momentum to shatter one of the table legs against the wall. His energy spent. Breathing hard, still trying to mask his pain with anger and cynicism.

"How can you ask me that," he said finally. For once, unable to ignore the whisperings in the back of his head. _The thought that it was only a matter of time before even Raze saw him for what he was._ And yet he could feel his form threatening to snap. _It had been centuries since he'd set a fire like that… Centuries. The words making him sick even as he said them._ "I gave you my _word_ , Raze. Do you have no faith in me?"

"I have more faith than you know, Lucian." Raze had become dangerously quiet. Taller by several hands now and practically on his hind legs. Like a beast waiting to pounce. "But you misunderstand my question. I did not ask if you started the fire…" He put his hands behind his back. "I asked _where_ you were."

_Where…_

He squinted in distrust. "Riding," he grunted.

"Before sunset?"

"Yes." It was like a great weight off his chest. _He had been riding. Like a mortal. A gentleman without a single care in the world, because that was what they had left him with after restricting his duties and pouring his blood-forsaken laudanum down the drain. Even with Bess holding the rest of his stash, he'd still be spending the next year under reduced circumstances._

"You admit it."

"Of course I admit it." Scoffing in the face of truth. "Should I have been shoeing a horse when they set the stables alight?"

Raze shook his head in disgust. "You _shouldn't_ have been riding."

 _So kill the damn horse_ , he thought. He was about to yell the words. Growl them at his oldest friend. An entire debate formed on why he'd rather have carnal relations with a dead horse than spend another decade in this blood-forsaken household. His rage getting the better of him. Frustration drawing the memories faster than blood, so that instantly, the words dried in his throat. The sound of the crackling fire, the sight of Raze disappearing like a stone thrown upon water.

_He was seeing it._

_A memory._ A sickness growing in his stomach like all the air had been punched out of him. _The morning sun too bright for him to look upon._ Out of the corner of his eye, he could hear Raze droning on…and on…about the next shift. _Weylan would be accompanying him throughout the day. His time would be restricted between the study, the barracks, and the dining hall. Singe would require his presence in the lab at precisely twenty to midnight._ _Several appointments in the day and one in particular he should not forget._

_An hour before sunset._

_She would be waiting in his study._ His perspective shifted. He could see himself through a mirror. Slouching in his chair, his boot on the edge of his desk. Picking at the dirt in the sole and ignoring Raze with a profound strength of will. His eyes glancing briefly over the agenda and then flipping the book shut. _His evening activities holding less interest for him than the prospect of eight hours' slumber followed by an evening ride._

Swift like a torrent being sucked out of his lungs, the memory ended. His sight starting to waver. His throat tightening around bile. Betraying him before he could mask his scent. At some point, he had stumbled. His arm outstretched, reaching for the wall. He tried to take hold of something. Anything. His knee threatening to collapse on him. _He had… He was…_

His knee gave out. Forcing him to the ground as though the world had been thrust upon his back. _He had forgotten it. The memory. The fact that he had seen it. Her name written down in the book. Sabine. She'd been asking to see him since they returned from the Gathering._ He was trying to move his tongue. Like wood frayed with splinters.

Raze seemed to be pondering him. His thoughts merciless. Every word spoken with a bite. "Was it a fuck that called or did you simply forget that she was there?"

"Raze, I _swear..."_ he said. _He was on his knees._ _Blood, could the man not see he was on his knees?_ "...I swear I did not remember until now."

"And yet I told you yesterday morning. I tell you _every_ morning. Your duties. Your hours. Your schedule for the next shift…" And for once, he seemed to be losing his reserve, jabbing his fist against his palm. "…how hard is it to listen?"

It hurt to listen. The words drilling into his head. He wanted to curl against the wall. Distantly aware that Raze was yelling at him. His fist striking the wall on occasion, punctuating his sentences. _Weylan saw her waiting outside his study an hour before sunset, precisely on time. She was gone by the time he got back from the stables. No one could remember seeing her after that._

By the bloods, he wanted to retaliate. _This was not his fault. Even if he had been there, she'd still have been a target._ But he could not say it. Not without the pressure building. The skin of his forehead feeling hot and compressed between his hands. His nails wanting to grow…and grow…until his nails could break through the skin. Until his skull cracked and the red could seep down his fingers. "We can get her back, Raze. We will fix this..."

Raze bared his teeth before he could make the sounds. "You cannot fix this with words, Lucian."

"I will fix it," he snarled, his head jerking up in anger. The urge to defend himself rearing up before he could stop it. Conflicting with his shame, the guilt that kept him from looking Raze in the eye. His legs finally leaving him with no choice but to remain seated, leaning with his back against the wall. Pressing his thumb into his forehead now. Tired of this guilt when at the heart of it, all three of them _knew_ what kind of person he was. _How many times had he warned them?_

_He had told them. He was not a care-taker. He was a drug-addict. It was dangerous. Leaving her with him like this was some kind of experiment to see how responsible he could be with his own flesh and blood. He had fucking warned them._

"…how many hours has it been?"

He could hear four seconds of air being inhaled deeply. The anger still sitting on Raze's scent, but the gravity of the situation instigating his decision to answer. "Three and a half."

 _Making it four, they could easily be in London already._ Closing his eyes and ears, he started working through the details again. Too sick to his stomach to do anything but think. _Rena and Reinette in the east wing throughout the morning. Sabine waiting outside his study an hour before sundown. The fire starting at sundown. It still did not make sense how they could disappear, nor why Blackmarks would steal away Sabine._ His mind taking him back to his desk, sifting through the information as he analyzed it.

"Leads?"

"None."

"Her scent."

"Gone." The lycan's eyes were slits. "Your Change made hers indistinguishable. The rest had evaporated by the time you finished clawing your way into the west wing."

 _Yes, thank you, Raze, I was looking for more guilt_ , he thought, pressing his thumb harder against his forehead. _Think. Think. Think._ "Grounds?"

"No sign of an escaping party." Smelling like he wanted to break something over his head, Raze pulled one of the wooden chairs over and sat in front of the bars. "The roads were clear. The forest. The river." He exhaled. "All of it clear."

"Catacombs?"

"Guarded since before the fire began and lacking in a Blood-scent." And judging by the way Raze said _Blood_ , it was clear he still thought Reinette was dead. As though he was just waiting to shoot down every option, no matter how far-fetched. The catacombs representing the primary evacuation route for his den, and by that virtue, the least likely escape route for their enemies.

 _In short, it came down to ninety-seven souls with only a dozen exits_. _Two of them sealed, including the one leading to Reinette's lair_. Each exit assigned to a guard, and each guard responsible for between eight and ten lycans, all of their scents familiar to him and each other. For the sake of their continued existence, all children under twelve were distributed equally among the escaping troops. _It was the reason they were able to deduce that Sabine was missing so quickly._

_No one could have slipped past._

"House?"

"Every sentry was at his post up until the fire." Raze had folded his arms. "Prior to that, two of them recall hearing a child crying on the upper floors, but they could not identity the voice. Only that it occurred in the East Wing and they were certain they saw Rena."

 _Another nail in her coffin_ , he realised.

"Do we have a name yet?" There was no need to clarify whose name was the object of this particular question. No doubt several parties would continue to lose sleep over that child's face. Stripped. Like she had been gnawed alive.

"Ginny Marsden."

He squinted, feeling stupid for the second time that evening. "Who?"

Raze sighed. Hard to break old habits. Like chaff in the wind, Lucian refused to remember anything mundane while Raze made it his mission. Of course the lycan had an answer. "Daughter of Grace Marsden," he said. "The mother worked as a scullery maid. Failed to report for work this morning. Missing for over a day now."

Just like the others. _Mary Parker. Sarah Henderson. Hannah Jacobsen._

_Grace Marsden._

_Ginny._

Something was rubbing the back of his ear wrong. "Presumed dead or traitorous."

"More likely dead. Can't see her killing her own child…" Raze was rubbing the back of his neck. Leaning his chair back with his boot against the bars. "…although I'll grant you, she was different, but not enough for a skinning."

"Define different."

It was the reason Raze had come down to the lowest floor of the den. The reason he was willing to report to someone he wanted to strangle six times out of ten. Banter. Conflict. They both needed the resolution that came from arguing. And despite whatever strangulation might be going on his brain, Raze always had his facts in a straight line.

"Grace Marsden worked here for two years, seven months, and twelve days…" His answer spoken out loud before he could remind himself that he might not be in the mood to satisfy what they both knew were some severely anal-retentive standards of time. "Average references. Military wife. Husband died in combat eight years ago. His name was clean…" Although by the grimace on the lycan's face, there was something not right about Grace Marsden's file.

_Something that was clearly not up his alley._

Without referencing the subject of his query, Lucian folded his arms behind his head and said, "What?"

In answer, Raze massaged his jaw. No doubt fully aware that the word _'what_ ' always meant ' _Thank you for sharing that with me, Raze. I am curious about this thing you have said. Please explain yourself further so we might discuss it.'_ Still it was another fifteen seconds before the man answered.

"She smelled rotten."

 _Not unlike his leg_ , thought Lucian, still trying to avoid feeling anything below his torso. "Why?"

"Because she smelled clean at the same time," the man decided. And by the shake of his head, that was his final verdict and he had to stick with it. "Like a well-painted ship with a rotten keel." His eyes were brutal. Brooding on the fact. "I could never put my finger on why."

"Maybe because there's nothing to put a finger on," Lucian grunted.

The words sounding like a lament for more than just the smell of Grace Marsden. For he was failing to see the entire picture. Something that galled him more than the leg. From his position, with his eyes closed, he could see the broken evidence, the mess laid out by their enemies. The pieces that refused to match. _Mary Parker, gone without a trace. Sarah Henderson, left outside the prisons and covered in lye. Hannah Jacobsen, missing her eye…also presumed dead. And now Reinette, Rena, and Sabine._

_It all seemed so random._

_What was the thread connecting them all,_ he wondered, failing to notice that he had started using his arms to move evidence around on a table that no one but himself could see. "Ginny." He said again, snapping his fingers at Raze. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"I have no idea." Raze was staring at him with an intense, gritting stare, clearly at the end of his rope for dealing with someone who required special care, regardless of how deadly he was. _Perhaps an understatement to say it had been a long six hundred years_. The impasse of their conversation broken by the sound of approaching steps. Quieter than Aron and accompanied by a short cough every few meters.

_Singe._

Allowing his arms to fall back on the ground, Lucian found himself eyeing the door with the kind of satisfaction that could only come from being able to yell an expletive at someone. _He was going to ruin Singe,_ he decided. _Slowly. Lots of mental pain._

The flames of his anger rising and then eventually leaving his head after the scientist came through the door. Like a mole that one had planned to eat, but which turned out to be doing strange things around the room that confused its attacker; enough that _not_ only did one not eat the mole, but eventually, one began to listen to it. _Much like their first meeting_.

The bespectacled runt waved Aron aside, leaving the door behind him open and launching into his explanation, using two pieces of paper to punctuate his sentences. None of them seemed to find it strange that one of them was behind bars. As though it were perfectly normal for him to be sitting there with a bleeding piece of silver in his leg.

"It was _not_ a child," Singe pronounced. Clearly expecting applause.

 _Not the words he had been expecting_. Lucian squinted and then started picking at his leg. "What?"

Singe waved the papers again. "The cadaver," he said triumphantly, as though he had happened upon one of the most profound discoveries of his career. "It had a growth disorder," he said. And then he retracted. "She," he corrected. " _She_ had a growth disorder." His excitement was causing him to ramble. "An anomaly…"

"Speak _lycan_ , Singe."

"Here." Singe held up the papers so the two of them could see. Parchment really. The watermark of the Line Registry in the centre of both sheets. "Birth and death certificates for one Ginny Marsden. Registry #LG1029184467. She appears in _two_ files."

"So?"

Singe looked over his spectacles. "You fail to appreciate the magnitude, old friend." He was reading from the papers now. "Her last name was not Marsden until 1861. According to the birth certificate, she was born on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. The mother is listed as a fourteen-year-old scullery maid. Name unlisted." He waved the paper. "The child suffered from severe birth defects and was labelled 'stillborn.' Death certificate signed on the same day by one Charles Andreas…"

Lucian sat up on his knees.

"Finnegan," he yelled, at the same moment as Singe. Pointing at the man in a manner that called for a triumphant round of back-slapping as they both came to the same conclusion. _That's_ why it sounded familiar _._

 _Staford, McIlry, Douglas, and Finnegan. The last of the Blackmarks working with Christian._ He could still see the lycan sneering across from him seven months ago. _There's your culprit,_ Christian had said _. Every upper-class bastard has a lower-class portrait hanging in the scullery. Gresden. Grinley. Something like that._

Not Gresden or Grinley.

_Ginny._

The magnitude of this triumphant discovery short-lived as his damaged knee suddenly exploded with pain. His spine cracking in three places, forcing him to scream as he fell onto his back, writhing as the Change took him for a second time. His bones breaking and stretching beyond their capacity. The eyes of Raze and Singe watching with little comment as he began his second Change of the night. No longer confident whether the screams were in his head or his lungs. _So much for taking part in the investigation._

o…o…o

_Meanwhile..._

Reinette was lost. Her eyes deceiving her as the earth turned left and then right and then again left. The labyrinth of catacombs making them climb and duck and climb again. The escape confusing her. Until without warning, they stood before an exit. Just as he had promised her. That tiny little hole in the wall, the one that had eluded her for months. Its existence hidden by a ceiling that was cracked, the entire surface looking as though it would fall right on top of anyone who dared to pass through it.

But when her eyes came closer to the crack, it became a carved illusion. A deterrent rather than a structural failure. Her head ducking as Kolya carried her through into a dead-end. A second deterrent. The dead-end hiding a gap above their heads where the the tunnel continued up and then down again, for it would seem lycans were paranoid about their escape routes. A people who preferred their lives locked and underground when given the choice. Only when they needed to climb did Kolya let her down again to walk.

Her feet tired as she found herself wishing for her bed. The familiarity of her chairs and the fire she had left burning in the grate. The cold something she could withstand as all vampires could; yet the warmth something she preferred now. Kolya's hands freezing on her wrists as he pulled her forward. The march proceeding for what seemed another hour. Perhaps two before the walls became brick. The air filled with heat and coal, stoked like the boiler of a train. The walls clanking like an army of hidden copper soldiers failing to pounce on their kidnappers.

Eventually, Kolya called for them to stop. The lycan-guide no longer necessary as he took the lead, finding his way through the maze with little effort. The lights all out and her eyes seeing shapes. He led them to a room where their kidnappers lit candles, the glow touching upon a small storage room filled with tools. A second length of rope was brought out and a pair of chairs were placed in the centre of the room. Their wrists untied and each of their hands and legs bound to a chair. She was told to be calm. Kolya kissing her on the forehead, promising to return in due time before leaving them with his lackeys.

The paunch-faced woman still sobbing into the butt of her hands. Rocking on her heels like a dog whining for its lost pup. The fingerless vampire grasping a bag to his chest, simultaneously muttering under his breath. Mopping his brow with a kerchief covered in grime. His sweating head towering far above hers, yet for all his height, he could not raise an eye to meet hers. The fact of this observation having led her to stare at him as soon as the door closed on Kolya's back. _He was not Hrafn,_ she decided again, ignoring the voice of her Mentor. _He could not be Hrafn. It was impossible._

"Mmwuh muhm…mmuhm."

The vampire glanced at her and then shook his head. Briefly and in a manner that still would not meet her gaze.

She demanded it again. "Mmwuh…muhm…mmuhm."

_No answer._

Albeit gags were not the most communicative of devices, but even she could tell she was grasping at straws with this one. The knots too tight around her wrists and the guards too nervous to be reasonable. If she turned her head far enough, she could see Sabine. Her emotions again trying to grasp at straws as she tried to build a scent. Something a...not a beast. But a child could pick up on. _Comfort. Hope. The possibility of scratching someone's eyes out with a nail, surely such thoughts would bolster the child._ But could a lycan child even register a scent, she wondered. Her understanding of lycan physiology limited…and the lack of a response failing to give her a sign. Sabine's head slumped against the chair. Drool on her lip. _Heart-wrenching, but not the most useful of strategies._

Time to move on.

She started shifting her chair back and then forward. Back and forth, attempting to knock her own chair over. At worst, she'd ended up with a bruise, and at best, the chair would break. The legs starting to tip over…and over…

…only to freeze in mid-air.

The blood starting to rush to her head as she saw a face hovering above her. The fingerless one. His eyes were green. His hair brown and nondescript. It was the first time he had looked at her. Sweating and grasping his forehead, he seemed to lose his nerve. Quickly, he pushed the chair back onto its legs and then backed away from her. Like a bear retreating from a porcupine, the grade of her impertinence seeming to alarm him. In fact, he looked terrified.

She narrowed an eye at him…and then started again. Shifting the chair back and forth. Just about to fall over until he caught it again. Looking at the door as though he expected it to open. When it did not, he picked up her chair and put her against the back wall so she could no longer fall in that direction.

 _Brute_ , she decided, latching her glare on him and starting to shift her chair sideways. It was a test. This time, she was dragged, chair and all, to the corner of the room. The test having less of an effect on her than this great bear of a man, who looked all the world like he was about to cry for having to come near her. _Coward_ , she thought. _Stinking of ale and sweat and…ashes._

_Murderer._

She started drumming her boots against the floor. Kicking her heels at the wall. Raising her head to the ceiling and yelling through the gag. "Mmwuh muhm… _mmwuuuhm!_ "

The brute caved. He knelt in front of her, so tall that they were to eye to eye. The smell of chicken-blood accompanying his every word. "Please," he whispered. He was using an old Russian dialect, rusted as though he had not spoken it in centuries. Taking his cap off before he realised he was not wearing one. "…please, lady, you must be quiet."

" _Mwuoh_ ," she retorted. She could barely understand the man.

"But he'll come back." The vampire pointed at the door. Looking at her as though she were crazy. "Do you want him to come back?"

If she could, she would have snapped her teeth at him. "Mwuh _muhm_." She jerked her head furiously towards Sabine. " _Mwuh_ muhm muuhm?"

"At least she's still alive," he argued. His eyes were bloodshot, like he too had seen enough for the night. "You see that woman…he skinned her little one in front of her. You don't see her trying to run."

_A little one._

_A child._

With a muffled hiss of rage, Reinette started to kick again, but the bear caught her boots with his hands. The stubs of his fingers incapable of circling her ankles, but the pressure enough to hold them down. The very act of touching her seeming to make him more frightened than her. _Murderers_. _Brutes. Villains._ With every hiss, the brute seemed to shrink into himself as though he had caught a snake in his hands and did not know how to retreat from it.

He was looking behind him now. "Graace…" A short whine of a whisper. Waiting for the other guard to answer…and then switching to English. Asking her to help him. But like Sabine, the paunch-faced woman would not reply. Her grief inconsolable. The same blood-spatter marking her face. The only sane ones being the vampires at this point, and even that was debatable.

"Mmmphff," she said, calling for his attention again. Negotiation, she decided. Talk. Deliberately trying to lower her voice. As though anyone would hear her screaming in this hole.

The brute clamped his palms tighter upon her ankles and then turned to look at her in a panic. "I don't know what you're saying," he whispered.

She shook her head, trying to wriggle herself out of the gag. "Mmmphff," she said again.

"I can't," he said.

"Mmhmpff."

"I can't let you go," he cried. Wiping his forehead on his shoulder, and then with an unexpected jerk, raising one of his hands in front of her face. His voice strangled as though this was his nightmare as much as hers. "…and even if I could, why should I raise a finger to help you?" His fear growing wilder. His teeth starting to draw back as he pushed her jaw back and made her look at his hand. "I don't _have_ any fingers," he cried. "Or don't you remember that?"

It was painful.

Her jaw wrenched back against her neck. Her eyes squeezed tight. She smelled alcohol and sweat on this man's skin. This man whom she'd never seen before in her life. _Truly she had never…_ The thought became dust as her throat spasmed. Her chest rising into the gasp as she felt something rise up from beneath the darkness. _A memory_. Her breath staggering to a halt as she saw something in the dark. Her eyes closed, but the man's fingers splayed in front of her, for in the memory they were whole. The fingers twitching and moving.

 _It was his blood. It had to be his blood_ , she thought in a daze. A wayward drop of blood that had fallen on her tongue. Yet she knew her tongue was dry. That she was seeing not a vision, but a memory. In her mind, she was scrabbling on the ground, trying to turn back, trying to pull away from herself. The rest of the picture blurry, as though a glass had not been cleaned in six hundred years.

But in the memory, she did not flee.

_o…o…o_

She had no reason to flee when she was not the prey. Their fingers entwined like lovers after dark. Bound with rope, twisted like the trunk of a poisonous old yew tree. _He was her prey and she was his hunter._ _Not a hunter one would think twice to look upon._ Her face hidden, her arms and legs wrapped in a plain woollen kirtle with a red shift underneath _._ A moonless night and the whole world grey save for that red kirtle. The seams and pleats, the itchy wool seeming to bother her more than his screams. His struggles like those of a fly, his bulky mass fruitlessly screaming for her to stop until he became quiet. The silence disturbing her more than the sound. _She was not glad he was quiet. So she waited._

Waited for him to wake up. Waited for his eyes to flutter open again, so she could carve away at his nails, his skin, and his bone. Slice so he would scream until she was finished. Only then sweeping his fingers off the stump. One by one. The first hand and then the second. Until they were all gone. Even then, his voice pleading with her, begging her to let him go. _But the memory would not let her. Not when she had so many tools at hand._

_And Hrafn had promised her she could take her time with him._

_o…o…o_

Unwittingly, she screamed, trying to pull her hands back, only to realize they were tied. Her screams muffled. The past still deafening her ears, while the present stood silent before her. _Judgment._ The memory fading as she came to herself with a gasp. Her chest starting to constrict, leaving no room for her lungs to breathe. Her head growing light. The gag tasting sweeter than the blood dripping from her nose.

_He must have hit her._

The gleam in his eyes causing her to expect the worst. A knife. Or a rope. Even a bar across the head. Yet the seconds passed and still nothing happened. The bear looking afraid and uncertain about her response…and then hating her as he buried his ruined hands into his armpits. "Rot in hell," he whispered. Seeming about to say more and then backing away, leaving the matter like a canker on his tongue. The prey thinking to confront his worst nightmare, only to find she was gone. Dead.

Her eyes started to sting, first making her angry. _It was a true memory. A piece of her past, it should hurt no more than the memory of her Mentor. It was proof of herself. Her true self. A time when she had been strong. Efficient. Cruel. It was… starting to fall apart._ Her vision growing blurry. Starting to doubt herself. Starting to question how she could have gone from her Mentor's counsel to following the ways of a monster.

 _She would never have… How could she have…_ But there was no answer that she could give, either to herself, the hunter or to her captor, the prey. No way of telling him that she was lost. That she had no memory of this past. That she was sorry. That she was different. _But then how different could she really be_ , she wondered. _Her memories foundered, but her instincts betraying her. The moments when she could have acted differently but chose not to._

In Paris, knowing within seconds that Kolya was a blood-masker. An innocent that could dream while he killed. His blood forever sweet and pure, the worst of his memories translating as sorrow and pity rather than cruelty. The kind of creature that killed with a smile, believing that his actions were good. She had had months to tell someone. Dozens of times when she could have raised the point. Saved Lucian the trouble. Her decision to remain silent representing less of a decision than a simple fact: _she had not cared._

If Kolya had killed all the exiles under the sun, she would not have cared unless he turned on her; and if they in turn had killed him, she _still_ would not have cared. Her thoughts more concerned with herself. Her captivity. Her youth. _Self before others._ That was what her past had taught her.

_Yet how many times had Lucian mentioned that there was a murderer on the loose? How many times had she flitted about the subject like a crow, confident that for once, she knew something that he did not. Never once considering that her silence might have an effect that she would feel. Seeing that woman burned alive. Knowing that Rena might have been hurt. That a child had been murdered._

Things that would not have phased her had she been six hundred years younger. And yet it was the years that made her thoughts come to a shameful halt as she looked upon Sabine for a second time. The innocent who had wanted nothing more but to give her a gift. The child's face covered in blood for the sake of her choices. Choices that made her want to sink below the ropes that held her.

_The truth of her character._

An exile that had survived a thousand years by being cruel. Able to watch everyone she cared about be murdered…and then join the murderer for the sake of her own survival. Her fate undeserving of love, underserving of happiness for she was a monster. An animal. Worse than Lucian could ever imagine, though she hoped to blood he would never find out.

o…o…o

_Back in the lycan den…_

This was what hell was. _Waiting._ By the time Lucian woke up, Raze and Singe had gone. The kinder one of them having left his pocket-watch on the table outside his cell. By his estimation, the Changes were passing quicker. The wood still burning in the fireplace. His head burning and freezing at the same time, while his stomach curdled on emptiness. His understanding of the cycle starting to become more precise. Every four hours. He was changing every four hours. _Blood, he needed to get out of here._

On occasion, Aron would open the guard-hole and give him news. Still missing. No new leads. Perimeter still clean. Countless times throughout history when he had been sequestered, unable to act or search. Yet by far this was the most difficult. Not just a merge or a lost shipment. His obsessions drawing him into a web of regret. Calculating the odds of finding them while picking apart the details. Trying to see the angle he might have missed.

The angle proving itself dull as he began to imagine different ways to get the bullet out of his leg. Most of his attempts requiring a knife or an axe of some sort. The withdrawal making him tired. Weak. Cold. His skin shivering to the extent that he was forced to take residence under a thick blanket in the corner of the cell. Staring at the watch, thinking of what he would do to the next fool that tried to leave him food. The brutality of his imagination forced to check itself when the door opened and Bess entered the room. _Or Mrs. Fulligan he should say._ His desire to cleave someone's head open with an axe just failing to extend to his housekeeper.

She held a tray in her hands. Her dress changed and her face clean. Dignified in the face of tragedy, as though the fire and the loss had never happened. Her scent filled with a quiet tranquility like a river passing over stone. Washing the hardness until it became smooth.

Mrs. Fulligan nodded for Aron to close the door behind her. The guard proceeding to close the door, but continuing to look suspiciously through the iron window. He need not have worried. She was fearless. Unshaken by the sight of a former lover at his worst, unflinching as she approached the bars. Her eyes rimmed from a sleepless night, and her duties to a household in chaos.

Balancing the tray, she passed a glance over the cell and then lowered her eyes. "You've not eaten, sir."

"Not hungry," he replied. A little more curtly than he should have. He was more to blame than her, but she had another thing coming if she thought he was going to sup.

"Please sir." This time she approached the bars, lowering both herself and the tray to the ground. The tray pushed close to the bars and the shadow of her dress blocking the sight. Her voice maintaining its decorum. "You should eat."

"Still not hungry."

"Sir…" Her name should have been constance. "Eat." Her voice speaking gently, but her eyes starting to harden. Warning him as she had done, thirty-seven years ago; the night she had seen him Change during an attack. Only now she was older, and there was no shock. Only an intense desire for him to take something from her.

_Take._

Her presence finally taking on meaning. Daring to hope, with the blanket over his shoulders, he pulled himself closer to the bars. The room feeling too hot now. His hands weak and filled with tremors as he pulled the tray through the small horizontal opening at the foot of the cage. The plate holding four cuts of venison. The meat turned over to reveal a precious cargo stained with blood.

_Laudanum._

_Bless her, she had brought him laudanum._ Barely passing his eyes over the door, he dug the glass vials out with his nail, hiding both within his fist and then beneath the blanket, so there would be no sign left for the guard. Seeming to eat the meal with only the curtest of words. One-handed with the blood dripping down his throat. _And still she did not flinch. Even though she smelled of pain and sorrow and guilt._ The desire to speak freely finally drawing him out. Words that even the guard could not hear…

' _How goes the hunt,'_ he signed. Keeping his hand low and hidden from the door. Thank blood she was facing him for as usual, she could not hide her thoughts.

' _Poor_ ,' she replied. Rare to teach a mortal their signs, but Elizabeth Fulligan was a rare mortal among his peers. The words hurting her fingers for they were too old now to sign as quickly as they once did. ' _Raze follows procedure,'_ she said with her hand. ' _Rules of curfew and safety. They have a trail, but cannot hunt in the open.'_

' _What trail,'_ he asked. Wiping his mouth against his shoulder, hardly tasting the food as it went down his throat. He could have been eating hawk and it would have tasted like saw-dust.

Through the bars, Bess' hands were still. Trying to come up with the words. Spelling out the name ' _Grace.'_ Her brow darkening and her eyes stricken with hatred before she continued. Mistakes in her sign-language, though he understood what she meant. _'They looked for her at the Registry, but the search was halted.'_

' _Why?'_ He was having trouble holding himself back from the bars. Desperate for news, desperate for some understanding of what the hell was going on upstairs. He could always count on Bess for keeping her eyes and ears open to the lay of the land.

There was a pause as she again tried to think of the words _. 'Raze sent word to the council,'_ she signed. ' _They used…a rule…to take charge.'_ The sign was hesitant as though she had seen the sign but never used it. ' _They say the hunt will…make not safe…the den. All hunts have been halted. They are in meeting. Now.'_

He swore under his breath and then answered her question. ' _They are using a horde rule to take charge over the den_.' He showed her the sign for it. ' _Temporary right of oligarchy.'_

His explanation avoiding the finer details: That it was a rule that could be enforced upon any leader who was 'non compos mentis,' that is to say, 'not of sound mind.' _Damn Raze for contacting Allegra. She would vote for a hunt, but she was a fool to think the investors would risk drawing the attention of the coven for the sake of a single child._ Especially in the year before an assassination attempt.

_He needed to get out of here. Now._

With his voice, he asked if Mrs. Fulligan had brought salt. His manner blunt as though he found her presence irritating. With her own, Mrs. Fulligan answered that she was only allowed to bring the meat, sir, and that she was sorry for the inconvenience, sir. He expressed his disgust over this fact and continued to eat, wary of Aron's face still watching through the hole. The key attached to the guard's neck. It was a vacant hope. _Do you have the key,_ he asked.

Mrs. Fulligan kept her head still. Her eyes still lowered to where his hands were signing. ' _No,'_ she replied. ' _Weylan is outside. He plans to hunt for Sabine. He will wait for you to escape. Thirty minutes.'_

 _Thirty minutes,_ he thought with a bitter laugh. _First a charge of non compos mentis, and now a direct contravention of curfew and safety, not to mention, he was sporting a silver bullet in his leg. If they ever made it back alive, at least he would have company in his cell._

He exhaled, chewing the last bit of saw-dust. The four pieces of venison that he'd managed to eat without noticing. Trying to plan how the hell this was going to work. He glanced down at the bleeding hole in his leg and then signed the question to her. ' _Does he have forceps?'_

' _No.'_

He scowled. ' _Well then how the hell…'_

Before he could finish the expletive, Mrs. Fulligan raised a sharp eye that spoke for itself. Stern in her judgment of the situation. As though he had just complained to her that he was having trouble getting blood out of a white shirt and by the by, would she mind heating up his dinner for a second time. In other words, save it for someone who cares.

With a roll of his eyes, his hands tapered off. His manner sullen but no longer trying to dispute the bemusing fact that their roles had just changed. A few years shy of seven hundred, he had four dozen British soldiers at his beck and call, and the only woman that could give him orders was his mortal housekeeper. _Even Allegra failed to have such power._

He took a deep breath. _'Thirty minutes,'_ he agreed, pushing the tray back towards her with no sound other than an expletive.

' _Thirty minutes_ ,' she signed again, taking the tray from him. Her frown patient, but fading for she worried over his actions. _'…and bring her back, Luka.'_ Her last signs woven with her right hand held low to her dress. ' _Please bring her back.'_

Her final plea invisible to the guard though her scent spoke of her worries. The weight she felt on her shoulders as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, using the bars for stability and turning for the door with a heavy sigh. Every grey hair in place, while the den fell to pieces. _The loss of a child something that none of them could stomach._ The desire to comfort her making him call out before she left.

"Mrs. Fulligan."

She turned. "Yes, sir?"

He wanted to reach out to her. At that moment, more than any other. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." was all she could say to him. Turning away from him and unfazed by the prying eyes of Aron. The aurochs unlocking the door, standing back so she could pass and then bowing his head once towards the cage before closing the door. The bow making him scoff. _Never let it be said that the lycan den did not treat its highest ranking prisoners with respect_ , he thought, uncapping both the glass vials and upending them over his mouth. _Sweet…bitter…laudanum._

The vials empty and the glass thrown in the fire. It hardly mattered if they found it for there was no way to remove what had been swallowed. His hand shaking as he lowered himself onto his side. Curling up to wait for his blood to catch up. The dose already making his head start to spin, for he had drunk more than he should have. His heart liable to stop at this rate. _But there was no time._ He needed the control back. He needed to know himself. His veins, his skin, his drug. He needed it all back so he could escape in thirty minutes. Through the silver bars. Through the iron door. Past Aron the aurochs and out the corridor.

 _Simple,_ he thought.

_Now all he needed to do was get this fucking silver bullet out of his leg._


	56. Beasts of the Chase

**Chapter LVI: Beasts of the Chase**

_24th of April, 1900. Forty-six minutes later._

As much as he was able, Raze was in full control of the London Den. Though the world had become chaotic: the den infiltrated by a traitorous Blackmark. The stables burnt. Sabine gone. A child murdered. Rena on the run. The blood-seer dead. The scent cold. And for the sake of them all, their leader confined to the Change Quarters for what had to be one of the most ill-timed withdrawals in history…

…though all this had happened and more, Raze had decided, or rather, he knew in his stoic and constant heart that life must continue. That the sun must rise and the mortals that surrounded them must believe that life had not changed in the Kerr house. Only that a lamp had fallen. Eight horses dead and the Master of Kerr choosing to spend the next fortnight in London until the repairs were in full swing.

At that exact moment, Weylan would be making the rounds downstairs, answering the door as the first footman when the gentry came calling. There would be servants scrubbing the floors and beating the carpets. Men clearing out the wreckage of an accident. Despite the constant need for meat, Henry Fulligan and his stable-hands would be disposing of the horse carcasses. The only sign of anything truly amiss lying in the absence of Alexander Kerr.  _But then how could anyone expect a true gentleman to linger in such squalor?_

_Yes, indeed, his lordship had been out riding the previous afternoon, but thank the Lord, his lordship was not hurt by the fire. So many lies they had grown used to telling._

It was a different story beneath the polished marble. The Lycan Council, so recently in the Gathering chambers, had taken charge at precisely two hundred hours. All hunts had been stopped. All unnecessary actions that could endanger the horde had been halted. All lycans registered in the London den were now legally obliged to check in with the roll-call every twelve hours. Rules of curfew and safety were enforced on a twenty-four hour cycle. From this moment forward, all Line travel and messages were being curtailed.

And Lucian…

…thanks to scorning his one chance at getting to the safe-house, Lucian had been temporarily released from his duties. Temporarily, they said…and yet, thanks to the murder of that lycan child—or oddity he should say—one could only wonder how long this next 'house arrest' would last before the horde again decided they needed his expertise for the constant war. How long their den would be under official review before they were released from the council's clutches.

This was the chaos that had kept Raze from sleeping the previous night. The chaos that had led him first to contact Allegra and then, to the one place where he could think after the council took charge. The sun coming up. The walls of Lucian's study bathed in a rising glow that few beyond a single person were able to witness. Because by all accounts, when Lucian was not in this study, Raze was in this study.

Odd that he should have to now share it with Aron, considering that Aron should be downstairs, guarding Lucian. Odd that Aron should be sitting in the leather chair across from him, unable to twiddle his broken thumbs because he was too busy holding the two halves of his face together.

It was a bleeding ruin. Like a masterpiece, a Vermeer that had been smudged with turpentine. One of the boy's eyes was squinted shut, and the other providing just enough blue to match his remaining hair, now more red than blonde. His uniform had been slashed. His shirt was lacking its upper half, possibly the result of one of his arms being dislocated. Or perhaps because his back had been shoved against a set of…four, five…no, six silver bars for the length of time necessary to leave an imprint.  _Suffice it to say, the key around his neck was missing._

To an outsider, it would seem at this moment that Aron could sense his presence was not welcome. That the missing key was a wrong that could not easily be righted. So Aron tried to speak.

But Raze raised his hand.

 _Not yet,_ he thought.

Because Raze liked to think on things. He liked to ponder and dwell upon the sights around him. In another lifetime, he might have been a philosopher. An astronomer. A great thinker like his father. His life taking him instead down the path of traveller…and then a warrior…and now…a guardian. The absence of the missing key and the sight of this ruined apprentice of guardians causing him to question why he even bothered anymore.

Why he bothered to train guards in matters of strength, intelligence, and resolve when the creature they were guarding was…

…unguardable.

His use of the word based on experience, history, and of course, the simple matter of statistics. Out of the four dozen personal guards recruited in the last hundred years, Aron had been the only one who had volunteered. His record impeccable, his strength indomitable, and his brain to a certain extent having the audacity to match his physique. Or one would have  _thought_  so prior to leaving him alone in a room with Lucian.

A man who  _used_  to take part in the training process, until it became brutally obvious that he was leaving significant scars on the minds, bodies, and souls of his victims. A fact that Lucian might have cared to notice if he had not been so busy walking away.

Not unlike the first time he walked out of a house arrest. Two hours after it started—and only an hour after he started maiming people.

Nor the last time. Thirty-six hours after it started—and only eight hours after he began describing to his guard in detail the kind of pain he was going to inflict, not on his guard, but on his guard's family the moment they all came of age. His description going so far as to include the kind of blade he would choose depending on factors such as weight, height, and the amount of loyalty they showed to their paternal heritage.

All things considered, the council had been remarkably understanding. The den had been relieved of all financial damages. Lucian had been forced to pay for the man's transfer…and that of his entire family. All three generations of them. An act which ought to have been painless, but which again, ended up being described, even as he signed the document, as  _'a charge of complete and utter horseshit'_ before he again walked away.

Raze pulled his claws from out of the desk. "Has he left already?"

"Yes, sir." Aron could no longer hold his head straight, but he saluted with his voice. His accent hunkering down into his roots, despite learning English from a chorus of British soldiers. "…he said to give you this, sir."

Even with his elbows resting on the chair, Aron's fingers were shaking. The skin starting to pucker and hiss until he could no longer stand to hold what Lucian had pressed into his hand. The silver catching the morning light as the bullet fell like a dead weight, leaving blood on the desk.

Raze inhaled, pushing himself up from the chest and standing at his full capacity. He towered over Aron and then leaned forward. "How?"

Aron lowered his eye. Every soldier and officer forced to defend himself when a higher party decided to assign blame where it was due. The scent of shame wafting from his side of the desk. "I was not in the room when it happened, sir."

"Are you saying the cage unlocked itself?"

"No, sir." Under all the red, his skin was showing the pallor of sweat. "I…entered the Change Quarters. He was on the other side of the cage. He wanted…he asked for water, sir."

_Water._

Raze felt his teeth starting to curve. "And you obliged him?"

Aron frowned into his beard. He was starting to hold his dislocated arm closer. Like a great hound after failing in its first dog-fight. Six feet tall…and beaten within an inch of his life by a five foot ten lycan who had been too weak to walk only three hours ago…

… _and in his mind Raze could see it._

He could see the roles these characters would play. Lucian on the floor. Sweat-stained, smelling of bile and blood and smoke from the fire behind him. Foul was the word that accompanied such Changes. Foul and pitiful as the body fought against its nature. He would ask for water. He would reach a hand out…and for the green behind his ears, Aron would fail to see the danger.

What danger, Aron would think. The lycan-master on his back, his eyes dull, his skin pallid, yet in a moment. In that single, careless moment when Aron reached his hand forward to place the cup near the bars…not even through the bars, but near… _that_  was when he would strike.

Using the wall behind him like a second floor, darting not beside, but through the centre of Aron's gaze. The speed causing his victim to hesitate. The smell making him freeze. The acrid smell of death sweeping upon him, latching its teeth, its nails, its iron grip on something.  _Anything_. Once he got a hold, the game was done. Like a mastiff. His eyes unnaturally still, watching their lives turn to smoke like a light on the end of a candle.

So many words and passages describing his 'scent,' yet at the heart of it, only those who were 'close' to him knew what it meant. _Harbinger of death. Raised by his enemies and trained to kill. He knew every weakness. Every point in their anatomy that could break. Even Allegra did not know the worst of it._

_But that still did not explain how._

_How he could move so fast when there was silver in his knee. How he could take out the silver so he could move so fast._ Taking a moment to rummage through the mess, Raze found the item he was looking for. Hardly worth his notice save for its scent. Something they had retrieved from the balcony of the East Wing in the aftermath. Its presence uncanny. The ink bottle shattered, but the cork only scratched…and more importantly, still containing traces of that singular drug that should have been eradicated from this household.  _Like battling a hydra, every head they destroyed bleeding into another battle._

Trying to contain his volume, Raze came around from the desk and held the cork out. "When he attacked you, did the lycan-master smell like this?"

Despite only having a quarter of his face to show his emotions, Aron and his beard looked confused by this request. But a superior was a superior. So he leaned forward to sniff. Perhaps for the recent memory, his nose flinched and when he raised his face, it was not his black-eye that was making him squint this time."Does he not always smell like this, sir?"

"No, Aron," said Raze. "At one point in history, the lycan-master did  _not_  smell like this."  _Though it had been over forty years since that time._  Impatient, he again waved the ink cover under the lycan's nose. "…when did it start?"

Again, Aron took a deep but cautious sniff of the underlying scent markers.  _Bitter. Floral._  Easier for lycans to remember a scent than a visual. Closing his eyes, the guard remained still. Working the smell through. Pinpointing the scent among his memories. "He dined, sir."

"Dined on what?"

"Veal." For all of his determination, Aron was finally looking tired from his wounds. "From Mrs. Fulligan."

_Bull's eye._

"Thank you, Aron." With a grimace that still could not bring itself to hate the hand that fed, Raze flicked the ink cork back onto the desk and then nodded at the soldier. "Dismissed."

Aron ducked his head and then pulled himself to his feet, ambling towards the door like a golden statue that had become a clay golem without a head. Only just able to turn the handle with fingers that would require a significant healing time. Another creation broken on Lucian's path through the shadows. Something Raze hated and admired at the same time. The survival instinct. The drive that had kept their pack alive even in the harshest of war zones.

Even in the worst of scenarios.

Sabine missing and none of them wishing to admit the possibility of her death. Allegra so incensed by the news that she had immediately called the council on them. A fact that would not go unnoticed by Lucian; not even if they found Sabine and won the war. A fact that he would hold against her until Raze doused that fire. For at the heart of it, they were his family. His brother-in-arms, his counsellor wife...

…and the missing one.

Sabine, the only pawn in this game that could cause Raze to put his hands together with an air of acceptance. An air that understood what needed to come next. The anger he had felt towards Lucian paltry compared to his rage at the council's decision to call off the hunt for Sabine.

_Rena he could leave to the dogs. Reinette did not even exist in his mind, whatever Lucian might say about her kidnapping. But Sabine…Sabine he had guarded in the past. Sabine he had carried as a toddler on his shoulders. Even in the days when Lucian still refuted her existence, in secret, he had visited the lycan carehouse. Watched her grow and fight and snap her teeth in that hell-hole. She was his god-daughter, he would never leave her to the dogs…and to hell with anyone that told him otherwise._

A sheet of parchment in his hand, Raze reached for ink and a pen, choosing his words and then arranging them into a suitable document signed and blotted before he let it fall to the desk. Hardly the most significant of actions until one noticed that as of that moment, Raze had temporarily resigned from his post, thereby leaving Singe in charge of the den.

An act that Raze suspected would go unnoticed until the lycan council decided to converse with an unimpressionable runt who failed to see the point of politics. If they were not careful, within an hour, he would have them sterilizing themselves beside his operating table. Exasperated disdain one of his strengths, while the rest of them were forced to use their noses. Their claws. Soldiering on as they pursued the only lead that still remained.

 _The Lycan Registry._  Before the council called off the hunt, they had pulled the files on Ginny Marsden…or Ginny Finnegan, he should say.

But it was Grace Marsden he wished to hunt. Her London connections. Her past before she came to the Kerr Household. Like a spider waiting in the corridors, she had bided her time in the scullery, waiting for a moment to strike…and then leaving the house in chaos.  _One of her Blackmarks setting the fire, while she burned the blood-seer. Leaving her daughter dead and taking another in her place._

 _But then who in the blazing hells killed Ginny Marsden?_ The tale turning and changing every time he tried to make sense of it. The culprit changing from Grace to Rena and then double-crossing itself so that Grace became the culprit again. Rena setting the fire. Rena murdering Ginny…and Grace striking Rena across the head in retaliation. The rain leaving him without a scent, so that all he had left was the knowledge of their disappearance.

The understanding that this house was holding a secret. A passageway that could allow their enemies to escape without setting foot outside of the house. The blueprints showing every entrance and tunnel, but failing to give him an idea of how the scum of the earth managed to infiltrate this house. Failing to show anything older than 1781. Failing to show the corridors built by any of the past owners: Goar, Morrigan, Sabas…even Xristos had been an owner during one decade or another.

For that was the lycan way.

Communal owners of their dwelling. Communal living for the creatures who hid in the daylight. Always thinking their doors were locked until it turned out the whole world had the key. For all they knew, any number of secret entrances might still exist beneath their noses. Escape tunnels and spy holes that had been burned from memory along with the blueprints of this house. His sense of security dissolving like ghosts passing in and out of the walls, like the perpetrators who had disappeared without a trace.

So with the light burning on his face, Raze shut the drapes of the lycan-master's study and turned his back on the sun. He would leave no stone unturned. No bridge unburned until Sabine was returned to these walls. They would hunt and they would track…and they would kill until the smallest among them was safe.

So it had always been. So it would always be.

o…o…o

_Meanwhile._

_Eighteen miles from the London den._

With his neck embroidered by dirt, roots, and what appeared to be someone's pelvic bone, Lucian, the most ruthless and powerful leader ever to escape the lycan Change Quarters, was lying on his backside in a stone tunnel, contemplating his humanity. Not because he had a brand-spanking new conscience per se, but more so, because the old one seemed to be following him everywhere. In the space of forty-eight hours, he had lost…things. People. Sabine sitting on the top of his list. Rena sitting below Sabine in theory…and Reinette…

…Reinette he could not place.

_Not yet._

Not while Sabine was out there, and certainly not while his conscience was having difficulty sorting out his priorities. His issue lying in the fact that technically he ought to care more about finding the first two…not the third.  _They were his people. They were his kin. They were lycans._ Whereas a bloodseer was a political pawn. An extravagance in this field of war. His brain already deciphering that this might be the reason Reinette was kidnapped in the first place. His mind wanting to track, to find, to hunt for that…thing…that had been taken from him. That thing he had put time and effort into…that thing that he had seen burnt to a crisp…only to see a glimmer of hope.

That poisonous venom that had cheated him for so many years. The possibility of life. The chance to undo what he had done. The chance to save that which he had lost. The blunt truth being that he wanted her back. Not for her political intrigue, not for her person, not even because he cared…

…he simply wanted her to live.

Live where death had failed. Live for a moment. Just this once. Just long enough for him to snuff the life out of her if he found out she had anything to do with Sabine's kidnapping. It was true that this might have exacerbated his decision to carve his nails through Aron's scalp. True that he had shoved his guard's face against the wall sixteen times, breaking his jaw in two places and then dislocating one of his arms.

And yet there  _was_  such a thing as comeuppance. Because why else would he be lying here, clenching his teeth over an already-damaged knee, which had literally snapped in two no more than twenty-two minutes into their run. One quarter of the way to the Lycan Registry and three quarters away from losing his ability to not scream in front of one of his closest advisors.

Weylan seeming already too busy to notice the lack of speech that often preceded such moments. The medical kit sitting in the dirt beside them as he worked. The bone already starting to knit, but the marrow as yet unwilling to re-form properly.  _And let it never be said that lycans could not be graceful under pressure._

With an unnecessary flourish, Weylan tied the last knot. "I am confident that the binding will hold, sir…" He held out an arm. "Can you stand, sir?"

 _What…the hell…do you think,_ Lucian almost barked. The words repeating in his brain, over and over in his brain. He wanted to break every syllable, less angry at Weylan than the fact that he was still limping. Testing the muscle and then prodding the knee with a wince.

"Sir?"

With a grimace, Lucian shook his head and raised his hand.  _Not now._ Forcing himself to rise to his good knee, he ignored Weylan and locked his shoulder against the side of the tunnel. Breathing between his teeth and then standing on the injured leg. Apparently just so he could throw up his last meal. Chunks of veal floating in a pool of vomit and blood. Bloods, but he hoped the laudanum was still in his system. His ears choosing to ignore the lycan's question as to whether he was 'alright' or not.

The answer being 'no.'

But his mouth deciding it would rather be damned than admit his abdomen was cramping, his stomach was nauseated, and if the symptoms were what he thought they were, then he was still suffering from a severe opium withdrawal. Which would be  _just_  fine if his uncontrolled symptoms didn't have the capacity to turn him into a blood-thirsty lycanthrope from hell, who also happened to have a shoddy knee.

He got up.

Breathing into his palms. Controlling the pain. He was in control of his pain. Ten seconds, twenty seconds…and then he shook out his shoulders.  _Ready. He was ready for this. He could do this. He was in control. It was not the laudanum in his veins…it was him._

Across from him, Weylan was starting to look concerned. Clearly about to ask again over his master's condition, but then choosing the more appropriate action of not getting his head torn off by commenting. He offered one of the water flasks and nodded towards the tunnels. "Which way, sir?"

_Which way._

Ignoring the inner voice that ticked, Lucian took a swig of the water and then spat.  _Nothing like the taste of blood-riddled vomit on his tongue._

"Left."

The turns going left and right, up and down until thirty-eight minutes later, they had arrived at their destination: the Lycan Registry. The only resource left to them for they were hunting blind without a scent. The fate of Sabine, Rena, and Reinette resting on this faint connection they had found…this Grace Marsden whose blood was as a black as Charles Finnegan. The faster they could get inside the Registry, the faster they could find a lead…a source…or even a location _. The odds of finding any of that information just about on par with finding a cornish hen with wolf's teeth. He knew it…and Weylan knew it._

o…o…o

_Deep below ground._

_In a tunnel far far away..._

Reinette heaved a sigh. She was slumped in her chair, contemplating whether she wanted to be found or not.  _Her chances of survival slightly higher with Kolya given that he had not murdered her yet. Whereas she was quite certain that Lucian—in his werewolf form no less—would be 'quite happy' to disembowel her after licking the blood off Sabine's face._

It was not a comforting thought. Naturally she dwelled on it.  _Dejected. Miserable_. It could have been an hour or three that passed, the darkness of now reminding her of that first night on the ship. Watching Lucian sleep as she picked through his things, searching for a sign of his madness. Her surroundings unknown and her fate yet to be determined. Her hands facing the walls, hidden from her captors. The mad lycan-woman who would not sleep and the finger-less vampire who would not look at her.

Only Sabine could see her struggles. The child passively watching her work at the ropes while she in turn tried to ignore the child. Willing herself to forget what she had done.  _Forget the smell of saffron. The peace that could be found in rose petals and citrus floating in hot water._ The clamour of the walls around them giving her some cover as she scratched and picked at the binding.

Her wrists starting to burn by the time the first knot came undone. The initial shock quickly tempered in the face of doubt. Wary of her own smell, she continued to slouch, keeping her hands hidden behind her dress. Unwinding the rope and then easing the second binding from her wrist, holding it tight between her fists.  _Free._  Scanning the room for something she could use.  _It was an impossible situation._  Even with surprise on her side, they were still larger than her. Her shoulders stiff. Her aged fingers shaking on the rope.

The thought causing her to hesitate. Her first night of waking still fresh in her mind, reminding her of how useless she had been.  _How Lucian had reached the door in a hundredth of a second._  The thought drawing a crease on her brow as she considered her chances.  _Her strength limited. Her speed guaranteed to be less than her captors…_

_Even so._

_She was a night-walker. A blood-seer._  She could fall from a great height and land without a sound. Blend with the footsteps of her prey. Forget that her body was weak and decrepit. Forget that she was not a monster, a lady of blood tracking her victims, silent on her feet, in a world that moved faster than humans.  _A world that killed in the dark._

Her breath seemed to dry up, her heart beating slowly. With precision, she scanned the room for what she had already registered. The bare minimum for weaponry.  _Rope. Blood-rations. The bag Sabine had been carrying that was now in the hands of the fingerless vampire. The knife in his belt._  Categorising every item. An untapped portion of her mind shaping her path, seeing his tracks in the dust and knowing that his gait leaned to one side.  _Seeing the possibilities. The angle of the knife. Its potential for gutting. Slicing. Killing._

 _Embrace it_ , she thought. Embrace this dance of death. The pace of her surroundings slowing to a death march. Her guards following their routine like marionettes in a doll's house. The first step as the one bowed, moaning pitifully into her hands. The second as the other hobbled on his hind legs, turning in his pacing, his back towards her. Waiting for the cue when she could rise, letting the rope fall to the floor.  _So long since she had hungered for death._

 _First the one._ Her movements hidden by the clanking of the room. Her steps imperceptible as she stepped up behind him, reaching idly for the blade at his side, the hilt carved out of maple, showing the four winds of the earth. Matching her steps with his shadow, sliding the knife from his belt, and in the same dance, abruptly twisting on her heel, stabbing it upwards through his brain.

He stilled.

She waited…a count of two for his eyes to glaze…and then she jerked the knife out again with a rasping sound. Watching him fall to his knees, his blood staining her knife. Pain and ecstasy starting to mingle with regret.  _She felt sorry for him. The few memories she had witnessed giving her reason to regret…and doubt._

 _It was here that she lost the advantage._  Her hand was shaking, her resolve starting to weaken as she stepped back from the body. The fear, the doubt, the questions starting to rise in her breast. _A werewolf. A beast. How could she overcome a lycan,_ she wondered suddenly.  _It was impossible_.  _She was old. She was weak._

 _But she had no choice._  Wrenching off her gag, she forced her eyes to Change and then turned the bloodied knife towards her second captor.  _Grace, as the vampire had called her._ This despicable creature who had betrayed Lucian. Her anger, her challenge tinged with fear…and yet her opponent met both with only the blank-eyed stare of inconsolable mourning. Their eyes holding for a count of three...before Grace began to rock on her heels again.  _Broken. Capable of killing her with a single blow, but lacking in reason or purpose. A traitorous pig with nothing to live for but shame._

Reinette backed away, circling around the coward to where Sabine was tied up. Forcing herself to turn her back on Grace as she knelt beside the girl.  _They had to move before her luck ran out._ She began to saw through the ropes, the knife smearing red across the girl's dress. Using her arm to wipe her forehead, trying not to betray how weak she was. The Change faded, the dance ended, and the knife shaking so much that she almost dropped it. Finally, the last rope fell to the floor. She stood quickly, turning the knife back towards the pig, praying to the Fates that the girl would stand and run.

_Her luck did not extend that far._

She looked down.

"Sabine," she hissed. Touching the girl on the shoulder, still aiming the knife at first the pig…and then the fallen bear. The touch soon turning into a prod…and then a shake.  _His brain would be healing soon._  "Sabine, get up."

The seconds continuing to pass. Fate choosing to saddle her with an invalid. With a hiss of aggravation, she pulled the girl off the chair, trying to make her walk. Pulling her. Dragging her.

In the end, she had to carry her.  _The weight of a nine year old more than she had bargained for._  Her chances of escape starting to dwindle with every step. The untapped killer in her blood reminding her that a knife could just as easily slit a dog's throat as carry it.  _Blood, she was a monster,_ she realised.  _Even so…_

 _…if she could just get Sabine out. That was all she wanted. Penance._  Adjusting her grip, she turned for the door. Stepping around Grace and fiddling with the handle. Pushing it with her elbow and backing into the tunnel they had come from. Closing the door as softly and as quickly as she could before searching for the nearest exit. All the shadows seemed lighter that she remembered. Her eyes trying to adjust to all the changes.

Having no notion of where they were going, she opted for the darkest path.  _They had to leave the light behind._ The tunnel made of stone like the one she had left, but the air starting to grow colder. The floor dry, but the smell of refuse telling her they were close to a city. She could hear flowing water. The weight of Sabine turning every step into a painful victory.  _She had to get Sabine out._  The stones beneath her feet causing her to stumble.  _It felt like they were going in circles._ The walls turning to stone and then suddenly brick again as they passed into another tunnel. The passage to her right leading into a pitch darkness.

The darkness suddenly flooded with light.  _There was no time to cry out._  She fell to her knees, pushing Sabine away lest she burn her. Blindly pressing her face into her hands, trying to protect her skin.  _It was the fear of every vampire, that shock of seeing light where there was none. Her reaction had no understanding of time. Only light and its capacity to burn._ Her hair failing to burn and her clothes retaining their form. She squinted and then raised her face to see what lay beyond the space between her arms. The light source coming from an open door at the far-end of the tunnel.

_It was Kolya._

And how terrifying it was to see him. _The face of that dark metamorphic angel, that seraph surrounded by light._ He was burning something…the sight filling her with the dread of a nightmare come true. Behind him there was a butcher's table covered in parts. Pieces. Flies buzzing like vultures over the putrid heap of victims that had started to rot behind him. He was distilling them. Removing the larger parts one by one and boiling them in the cauldron. Boiling away the blood and then flicking the smaller pieces into the furnace. Covering their tracks. And yet it was not the bones or the flesh that made her want to cry out...

 _But the leaves of her vision._ Leaves upon an open fire, the twigs crackling beneath a cauldron that smoked. Her fears made tangible. Sabine soon to be carved into pieces…and burnt upon the flames.  _His purpose clear to her in this moment, for she knew this creature for what he was._ His back was towards them, but it would not save them. With only the barest of turns, his head crooked like a raven, he looked at her…and then reached for one of the knives on his table…

…silver.

_No._

Desperate, she gave up on the light and crawled like a dog, searching the ground for the knife she had dropped.  _He was almost upon them._  His boots drifting from the right to the left…the silver blade in his hand starting to clack, clack, clack against the wall like a metronome.  _Time was almost up._ Somehow, she kept searching. Ignoring the sharp edges of the stones as she ran her palms across the ground.  _She may as well have been blind for all the aid her eyes gave her._

Suddenly she felt it.

 _The hilt of the fallen knife._ Feeling a strange calm settle upon her shoulders, Reinette breathed…and then pushed herself up from the ground, reaching out to where she had dropped Sabine. Shadowing the child so she would not be blinded. Turning her back on Kolya…and for the first time in many hours, knowing what she must do. _She had to get Sabine out._ Time slowing down as she touched the girl's cheek, staring into the eyes of the storm…and taking hold of it.

"Sabine."

Breathing deep, she drew the last of her reserves. The last of her rage…the Change creeping into every corner of her soul. Knowing that for one of them, this escape…this chase…would be over _._ _Grey eyes like the storm,_ she thought _. Only there was no wolf coming to save her. There were only hunters in the night._  The icy breath of the north filling her lungs as she bared her teeth. Wrenching the girl up by her neck and drawing her up close.

Their eyes met in the dark.

"Run," she whispered. Her voice colder and deeper than the Arctic…her pupils dilating as she saw herself in the glaze of silver.  _Violent, and deadly, the last vestiges of her humanity twisted by the Change._

_She was a monster._

Her teeth angled back as Sabine dropped to the floor in a crumpled heap. Staring at her with a soundless cry. Finally able to see the nightmare that waited in the light before her.  _The raven with his silver blade. The leaves burning on the fire. The bodies lying before the cauldron._  She could hear it. The girl's heart starting to beat faster, loud and wild. With a terrifying wrench of her spine, she tore into the shadows. Like a fox without a hole, the soles of her feet pelting silent against the jagged stones.  _A child. An animal. One that could flee without a sound._

_And now gone._

_Already the Change was passing._  Her strength growing weaker. Her breath shorter. Slumped on her knees, Reinette reached out her hand and then let it fall to her lap. Forlorn. Left behind and waiting for the inevitable to catch up with her.  _She was not the only monster in this tunnel._  The light casting an ominous shadow over her head, warning her of the heat she had once feared. The clack, clack, clack of Kolya's blade drawing close as he came to stand beside her. His expression no longer wrapped with a sickly sweet demeanour. No more empty smiles or promises for she had ruffled his feathers.

The time for blood-masking was over, and the creature that was Hrafn, whose name had been Kolya, had woken from his dream. He was alert and conscious of everything around him. His eyes, black as the raven that was his name-sake, now fixed on the top of her head, glittering with unleashed anger.  _Time was precious…and she had compromised their escape._ His stance no longer curled but stick straight. The veins in his neck taut as his nails began to tap, tap, tap on the crest of his knife hilt, even now poised with more grace than the brutality she had expected.

It was uncanny.

 _She could see the carcasses behind him. She knew he had burned his name into her skin. Yet still, she was drawn to_   _him_. The firelight dancing with his shadow, lining his silhouette with an enticing glow. Despite the chill that was inherent to all vampires, she felt her skin growing warm. Her heart beating faster as her desire began to grow. The child within, the innocence that came from losing her memories, telling her to run, crying for her to back away on her knees. Telling her that she could change.  _She did not have to go with him._

 _But it was hard now._ The faint memories of her future starting to fade before the past that was still ingrained in her blood.  _She was a creature of Hrafn and she must follow him. Return with him to the North. Drink from the blood and the youth of her people so she could again take her place by his side._ Such things were like runes carved into stone.

Yet somehow she felt her hand curling in defiance. Her fingers curling tight around the knife hilt she had dropped.  _The knife._  In the commotion, she had nestled it beneath her skirt. Hungry for the silver flask nestled in the shadows of his coat, tempting her with the promise of youth. With his eyes locked on hers, she expected him to speak, but he said nothing. Perhaps thinking on how to punish her now that she had defied him…not once, but twice…and when Hrafn was concerned, there was never a third time.

 _Hrafn was a stickler for such things,_ she realised, absently knowing it was true but having no memories to bolster the fact _._ No ageless face to match with a name for her eyes were still convinced that she was staring at Kolya. His features made all the more wretched by the few scant memories she had tasted in Paris.  _Memories of a handsome youth with impeccable Russian, a naive creature whose name had been Nikolai Proshkov Andreev._

…yet there was no doubt in her mind now that if  _ever_  the vampire Kolya had existed twenty…or thirty…or even a hundred years before…he was now at that very moment…ash. His memories worn like a mask by one who carried the souls of the dead in his veins.

_A pity._

She lunged forward with the blade, aiming for his throat. Daring to cut the veins from his jaw before he could react. In the same moment, he twisted, darting to the left. She felt a cold draft passing across her cheek. His pale hand moving too quickly for her to see what had become of it. Her instincts telling her to move in the opposite direction. Instead, she felt her jaw crack. The sound of metal crunching into bone. A dull pain radiating from her head. Her fingers were empty…the knife gone.

Stunned, she tried to get up…

…and then fell to her knees, unable to control her limbs, tripping on the tattered hem of her dress.  _Her boots were not moving right._ Confused, she looked down and then started to fumble at the base of her neck, trying to find the source of the pain, the place where he had struck her. Searching through her hair until she found something…hard and sticky. Her fingers soon sticky with blood. It was…

…her knife.

Her knife...was in her skull.

Again, she felt herself stumble. No longer able to think straight, the memories in her brain starting to coalesce. The pain starting to drift away. No longer the hunter, but the broken marionette sinking against the wall, staring distantly into the space in front of her.  _An eternity seeming to pass_. Her eyes wanting to close. Her breath becoming faint…for reasons she could not remember. Her memories spinning on a giant wheel, so that her past was her future, so that in that moment, all things were simultaneous.

She was young…and old…and then young again.  _In one moment, she was a child, whining at her mother's feet._ C _urling into a ball on the ice, using her hands to cover her eyes, peeking at the sun through her gloves. Reaching across the broken ice, clutching at her brother's hand, trying to save him._ In another, she screamed in pain, writhing as a steaming red-hot iron burned into her side.

The pain suddenly wrapped away. As though she always been there, she felt herself sinking into a moonlit grove, folded in the arms of a lover, one whose eyes were as grey as a winter's sun.  _His voice beside her ear, showing her how to mask her scent._ Even with the hilt in her head, with her blood spilling on the ground, she could hear his voice. Calm. Assured.  _If they cannot read you, they cannot see you,_ he said, tracing a line along her back.

Soothed, she felt her arms go slack. Faintly aware that Hrafn had turned his back on her. His arrogance, his concerns now taken with the tunnel into which Sabine had disappeared. His was the precision of a surgeon. A butcher. A murderer.  _She would sleep…and then she would heal…and then, as surely as the sun chased the moon, they would go on as they always did._

 _Only she did not want to go on._  Dazed as Sabine had been, the child within her struggling again…and again…with childish fears.  _Knowing that she was afraid of the dark. Terrified of the Stallos, the hideous northern giants of myth who tricked her brother into walking on broken ice._  A single memory rooted deeper than all the others, an unyielding tendril of her past forcing its way through a mangled surface.

_It was her first memory._

_Old enough to scrape hides. Young enough to slip on ice._ The face of her crying brother changing to that of Sabine.  _She reached across the broken ice, screaming and clutching at her brother's hand, trying to save him before he slipped beneath the water._ Drifting through the memory, she felt her hand reaching up…slowly…but surely, at first slipping and then tightening around his hand. _She need only pull…_

_…if she pulled, she could still save him._

With a sickening crunch, she pulled the knife out of her skull. The back of Hrafn starting to grow in her eyes.  _He was the ice. He was the darkness. And he was a fool to turn his back on her._  She screamed, throwing herself at his back, the knife clattering useless to the ground. Attacking with her teeth like a wild beast before its hunter. The last of her strength spent on tearing her nails through his face, desperate to keep him away from a brother who had been dead for over a millennium. Clawing at his cheeks. His mouth gaping wide as she caught him off guard. Her nails managing to snatch away a single prize…

_…just one._

_A piece of his eye hooked between her talons._

With an undignified yowl, Hrafn caught her wrists, writhing in agony over the missing iris. The gaping hole in her head causing her to see things that were no longer there.  _The dreams that never came to pass._ Where beauty had once been, she saw now only an ungainly fool clutching at his bleeding eye, forced to let go of her brother's foot.

 _Run,_ she thought distantly, marvelling at the speed of her little brother. In her mind, she saw him pull himself up, wet like a seal, from the icy waters. His black hair glistening in the sunlight as he sprinted away from his watery grave _._  His feet as light as a winter fox pelting silent across the snow. Her glory, her satisfaction, marred only by the dull sound of a fist crunching into the side of her skull.

Hrafn throwing his blade to the ground with a petulant hiss before taking her up by the wrist. Her arms going slack as he dragged her across the tunnel stones towards his fiery hole, cursing her name beneath his tongue. Cursing the light and the youth he had promised her so long ago. So intent on binding her to his butcher's table that he failed to notice that her face was peaceful. Failing to notice that he had done her a service by striking her in the midst of that memory.  _Even had she been conscious of the pain, it would not have mattered._

 _For her brother lived in that moment._ He was alive in her dreams. His heart beating louder and wilder than a hare leaping from a hunter's trap. His hair turning red as he tore into the shadows of the forest.  _Run,_ she whispered. Watching him change from a hare into a glorious wolf. _One that could flee without a sound._

_And now gone._


	57. Leaves upon Fire

**Chapter** **LVII: Leaves upon Fire**

_Thirty-eight minutes later._

Though it would seem like a year, only a day had passed since all had been right in the London den. Rena crouching on the stairwell. Sabine bored with her studies. Reinette safe in her quarters. Only an hour since Lucian had escaped from the lycan Change Quarters. And now the sun already risen, making him wonder why the devil he was still listening to that voice. The one without doubt or consequence. A voice that condoned breaking into the Lycan Registry for the sake of a personal misadventure.

Their entry-point set in a bleak unassuming alleyway between two buildings. Four doorways on each side, every stone blackened by smoke, and every stoop covered in grime. Neither the cleanest nor the filthiest part of East London. Merely average. The urban squalor passing them by and the hour too early for anyone to look twice. Hawkers calling their wares. The lampworkers pulling their boots off, while children crawled fruitlessly among the refuse piles.

The back-breaking work of survival carrying more weight for the common man than the two lycans hiding in their midst. The Registry building rising only two stories above their heads, its upper half taking the guise of an old workhouse that more often than not was full. The few dogs behind its doors often describing the food as being 'spittle-drenched' on the best of nights and 'sewer-rot" on the worst. _Its reputation for filth providing another reason for mortals to steer clear._

The necks of their coats turned up, they followed a line of dockers on their way to the piers, allowing them to pass through the streets unnoticed by lycan and mortals alike. _Their faces already covered in dirt, so no extra effort there._ Their steps taking them down the alleyway where Weylan now leaned against one of the walls, a docker's cap covering his face while his eyes kept tabs on the main street. Lucian was nowhere to be seen, his location going unnoticed for some time until the muffled sound of breaking glass announced his presence for anyone standing directly below. The world continuing to pass them by for the street was already used to such noises.

Weylan spoke without looking up. His words barely audible. "Have you found it, sir?"

"Almost." The voice came from above. Lucian, its owner, still invisible to passing eyes. If one could see what he saw, the view would comprise of a stone wall. A mixture of blood and glass on his fist. His hand reaching through a circular iron window as he began to feel for his entry-point. His fingers finally passing over the lock, its placement familiar to him, but the angle of his attack forcing him to rethink his choice of tool.

For of all the entrances to the Lycan Registry, this was the only one that could possibly be described as the 'complicated one.' The key to entering this door lying not so much in the door itself as the small window that existed three stories higher, flush against a four by three by thirty feet space between walls, the deep indentation seeming like an old forgotten chimney without a cover. With the street only a few yards away, the only method for scaling the wall undetected was to move vertically, bracing his feet and his back against the two opposite walls. One after the other until he was thirty feet above the ground-level.

 _Not the loudest, but certainly the slowest method for breaking and entering._ With an eye to the ground, he pulled a leather wallet from his coat pocket, selecting a smaller choice from his tools before adjusting his position for the upteenth time. His good leg keeping him from falling three stories, while the other seemed content with merely holding until such time as it saw fit to break.

Three stories up a wall with only his boot and his back to stop the fall, he might have preferred to break the door down, his leg be damned. As it was, they were both aware of the danger behind the door. Like walking into a four-hundred and eighty pound mousetrap fashioned of steel, iron, and stone, with silver coating every sharp end, thereby preventing even the most stalwart of lycans from spending more time with any wounded appendages.

Fortunate that Weylan had had the presence of mind to pack his tools. _That and scavenging the clothes for his back. A filthy coat and a second docker's cap pilfered from a sleeping vagrant. A week's wages left in the vagrant's pocket for his trouble._ His leg starting to ache and his fingers starting to fumble with the lock. Granted he could have accepted Weylan's offer to pick the lock, but he saw no reason to burden the man with any more charges. _Non compos mentis. Curfew and safety. Breaking and entering._

He again fumbled with the lock, cursing under his breath. Again willing himself to focus. _Focus on the_ _tools._ As long the tools were available to him, he could open anything. His past experiences with cages having led to more than a few centuries of obsessing over the subject. Learning the thousands of ways that one could break through a lock. Cut through a chain. Throw a wrench in a trap. _But the tools were the key_. Tools and a pair of steady hands. Steady…comfortable hands…that were not shaking because he had just downed two blood-forsaken vials of laudanum in the space of three seconds…

_Fuck it._

"Weylan." Forcing himself to swallow the pride that often accompanied such moments, he slowly…and carefully…climbed down from his perch. Allowing himself to drop the last four feet, landing on the good leg, before handing the tools over. Begrudgingly. "Open it."

"With pleasure, sir."

Within ten minutes, the lock was turned and they were through the door. The stone, steel, and iron locked behind them and the sounds of the morning turning to a deathly silence as their eyes adjusted to the dark. It was quite possible they would open the next door and find themselves surrounded by a pack of lycan clerks. On the other hand, the council's orders had enforced a twenty-four-hour curfew. Something that should, in theory, draw most lycan service workers back to their holes, leaving only sentries to keep watch over the building. _That and the one poor soul charged to burn the place down should the Coven ever infiltrate the grounds._

In the end, it turned out to be the latter. Their sudden and rather unexpected appearance from a back room causing a lone sentry to pull his service revolver before he realised he was aiming it directly at the lycan-master's head.

Only to find that not only were his hands now empty, but the lycan-master was now aiming the exact same revolver at a space much lower than that, an area that, he was assured, would not heal pleasantly. The awkward situation explained in a tone that brooked no argument, so that in moments, the sentry was volunteering to have himself tied up in one of the storage rooms. Even offering to give them his keys so they could use the service lift instead of the staircase.

Their infiltration of the Lycan Registration leading them three stories down the lift, through the tunnel system, sneaking past three more sentries, one of whom was also ' _taken care of_ ' as painlessly as one could, until they found themselves before a massive door crafted from brass. The metal woven in coils and the decor suggesting an abandoned cairn that held the bones of an ancient warrior.

The air slightly cooler. The security slightly remiss given that there were only two guards standing on either side of the archive doors. _Both pushing the term gargantuan and neither showing the slightest intention of surrendering their weapons_. His breath starting to quicken. His ability to dig a bullet out of his knee-cap and beat a man senseless having left him with just enough energy to do absolutely nothing in the face of these guards. The element of surprise having left him the moment they had turned the corner.

 _But Luck, as it was, had a better purpose for him._ Barely waiting for him to speak, the two lycans saluted in unison and then pushed the doors open for him. Their appearance daunting, but their day-to-day existence as hired muscle perhaps having left them with only a cursory understanding of the politics above their heads. That or someone had neglected to inform them. The Registry Archives holding thousands of dust-covered tomes and by that virtue, holding very little interest to anyone with a pulse.

Before they could notice the tell-tale beat of his heart racing, he muttered 'at ease' and stalked through the door, not even bothering to explain why his knee was starting to drip blood on the stones. _Because apparently no one asked him anymore_. His efforts to keep things 'normal' resulting in him turning on his heel and barking for the Archive guards to 'shut the damned door.'

Their actions quick and their scents justified. Not quite terror. But a sharp sense of self-preservation coated with respect. In the interim, it would suffice. Waiting until the handle turned, he considered staying on both feet, and then gave up. Allowing himself to drop to his good knee, and then easing himself down onto his back, closing his eyes for a moment. _Until he slept, his healing cycle was going to be completely off._ The withdrawal paused for the moment, but surely looming, leading him to wonder if there was a pharmacy nearby. _Blood, but what he would give for a whiff of laudanum._

"Sir?"

He jerked his head up…and then looked over to where Weylan was standing by one of the cabinets. There were hundreds of cabinets, all of them labelled with letters. Three rows of tables covered in dust, and between them, twelve chairs strewn about the room. As though someone had been here ten years ago and then left in a hurry. _If the Change Quarters were hell, perhaps the Lycan Registry was limbo._

He rolled off his back. "Did you get the files from Singe?"

"Yes, sir." Weylan paused in the act of opening one of the cabinet drawers. With a swift bend of his arm, he retrieved his lawyer's satchel from the floor where he had left it and unclasped the brass handles. _They had left most of the resources behind in the catacombs: weapons, blood, ammunition. Anything that would draw attention. But the satchel, Weylan had brought._ The rich leather making it seem out of place when they were both dressed as commoners, but its presence integral to their search.

Using a chair to pull himself to his feet, he shrugged his coat off and let it drop to the floor. He could already smell the formaldehyde from across the room. The faint trace of Singe that made him want to kill something. Particularly in light of how much damage that silver bullet had accomplished in the past seven hours. That and the _again_ unnecessary flourish with which Weylan pulled the folder from the satchel, placing it deftly on one of the tables for Lucian to study. Bowing his head once as though this were a bi-weekly Line meeting before returning his attention to the cabinet drawers.

Thereby failing to see the grimace Lucian had directed at his back. "Is this everything?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Right," said Lucian, limping across the marble floor and skirting around the tables covered in dust. "Start with Finnegan. First name, Ginny, Grace or Charles, and if you cannot find any information beyond what we have, I want you to switch to last name, Marsden," he ordered. _Marsden for the missing scullery maid. Her daughter dead in the aftermath and his den left in chaos._

He flipped both files open. The watermark of the Line Registry appearing clear in the centre of both sheets. Singe's order slip still tucked between the pages...

_Ginny Marsden. Registry # _ _ _DG1029184467___ _._ _A sworn testimony on April 4 in the year of our Lord, 1861, verifying the birth of one "Ginny Marsden." Born on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. Mother listed as Mrs. Grace Marsden, wife of Private John Simeon Marsden. Certificate signed in the Dublin Registry Office.__

…and on the second file.

_Stillborn. Registry # _ _LG1029184467__ _ _.___ _Death certificate of one still-born child. Passed from this life on October 29 in the year of our Lord, 1844. _Mother listed as a fourteen-year old scullery maid._ Name unlisted. Certificate signed by one Charles Andreas Finnegan in the London Registry Office._

He frowned…and then pulled a chair to the table, yanking one of his boots off so he could roll up his trouser leg and inspect what the devil was going on with his knee. "So correct me if I'm wrong, Weylan, but …" He eyed his knee and then held up the file. "…we are surmising that Ginny _Marsden_ …is actually Ginny _Finnegan_ …"

"Yes, sir."

He waved the file to right. "…whose father was Charles Finnegan, our original Blackmark…"

"Correct, sir."

He waved the file to the left. "…who we assume had a child out of wedlock with a fourteen-year-old scullery maid…"

"Indeed, sir."

He dropped the file on the desk. "…who by no small chance is now Grace Marsden, our resident scullery maid whom Raze describes as smelling rotten but clean. One whom I would also suspect is a traitorous Blackmark living in the boundaries of the London den." With a hand poised gingerly on his wounded knee, Lucian took a breath. "Did I get that right?"

"Right as rain, sir." Weylan was pulling several folders from the 'F' section.

He sighed, still eyeing his knee. _It shouldn't be smelling like that._ "So presuming Raze briefed you on the situation, how far did they get before the search was halted?"

"Property, sir." Weylan dumped the F section onto a table. "Master Raze believed we might find a lead under the list of properties that were leased to either the Marsdens or the Finnegans. We are also looking for any last names referenced by both the Finnegan family and the Marsdens. As yet, there is no indication of Grace Marsden's maiden name, but if we were to find a connection, I believe the path might lead us somewhere."

_The key word being might._

"So in short…" Lucian was already pulling his boot back on, refusing to think thereafter on the infection now growing in his knee cap. "…no scent. No leads. Just a pile of papers that may or may not lead to quarry."

"Yes, sir."

 _At least he was honest._ The next twenty minutes spent flipping through file after file. His tendency to look for order helping him to narrow his search down, but the results still comprising of over two dozen property listings within forty miles of the den. Eight residences, two storage houses, and an unhealthy pile of warehouses which had been sold over the past fifty years to make way for the new underground.

 _He needed another reference point._ The contents of Weylan's satchel providing him with a list of street names from the murder inquiry. _The trail starting with Sarah Henderson at the Lycan Prisons near St. James. Shifting to the burnt cellars of Poplar High Street. Crossing the Isle of Dogs with the eye of Hannah Jacobsen. Widening out to Greenwich before ending in the perfume houses of Westminster._ Arlington's foray into the lycan scent world resulting in several shut doors and a political riot among the Conservatives. People like Gautier and Douglas whose wealth was tied in the business of smelling more scents than the average dog. _Heaven forbid they knock on the doors of a lycan perfume house for the sake of a murder inquiry._

Scratching his neck, he abandoned the list momentarily to search for a visual. One of the archive drawers yielding a relatively unused map of the London area, allowing him to plot out the various trails with a graphite stylus. _The map covered in 'x' after 'x' after 'x.' Trails that had been searched and cast aside as cold through previous investigation._ The stylus tapping on the desk before he added another reference point. _Exile's Quarter._ Located at the centre of his search, the quarter and its surrounding area of Whitechapel was approximately three to four miles from every other location on his map.

 _The only unaccounted location being that of Mary Parker._ _Parker whose corpse was never found._ He scowled, starting to rifle through the files of each victim, the information on Parker representing only a single page. _Eighty years old and hailing from South London, she worked the usual boundaries of Whitechapel when the murder occurred._ The file containing the details of the bloodsweep from that night. The name of every exile marked with a dash to indicate the blood was clean. _Her scent card marked with an 'X' giving them the first indicator of a Blackmark conspiracy._

He flipped Parker's file shut, skipped Hannah Jacobsen, and moved onto Sarah Henderson. _The only tangible corpse from the entire inquiry._ His memory providing enough fodder for him to see every detail from the file. _Sarah Henderson whose throat was melted with lye, the bite marks obscured…and her shirt-collar clean. The dress belonging to Henderson, placed on the corpse after the lye had been poured, suggesting Sarah Henderson was unclothed when she died._

He covered his eyes, trying to see every step. _The killing. The pouring of the lye to obscure a bite. The dressing of the corpse._ A chamber-maid wearing clean clothes to her death bed…with lye on her neck. _The act of dressing a corpse striking him as odd_ _._

It was an act of decency. A trait that the Blackmarks did not have. _His years of watching Christos leading his campaign against Exile's Quarter suggesting that most Blackmarks were concerned not only with the killing…but also the degradation of their victims._ _Leading them into the dark, forcing them to suffer all manner of indignities before they were torn apart in the underground tunnels._

"Weylan…" He was slowly but surely going out of his mind with this one. "…why would you redress a corpse?"

"A corpse, sir?"

With an exhale, Lucian let his head drop back. "Yes, a _corpse_ , Weylan."

There was a sound of a drawer being opened behind, the young lycan making a hemming sound as he considered his reasons. Eventually seeming to settle on one that suited his elegance. "I suppose if I had known the victim well, sir."

"And if you were her killer?"

Without missing his cue, Weylan walked past him to drop a stack of blueprints on the table across from him. "Respect," he offered before returning to the drawer to pick up the next pile. _The question seeming to strike him as perfectly in line with the general conversation one might have with the leader of his world._

 _Respect,_ thought Lucian. He was thwacking his stylus against the table again. _Blackmarks did not respect vampires. They left them in a tunnel with their entrails hanging on the walls and their clothes torn apart._

The minutes passing with irritating slowness as he began to wonder if his previous hell had not been better than this limbo. The helplessness that came from being surrounded by too much information. The knowledge that they were losing this battle. Losing the war against these infidels who saw it fitting to murder one child and steal another. His thoughts taking a darker turn. A chill flowing up his spine as he again saw the dead chlid's face in his memory. The hair changing from white to red. The face becoming that of Sabine, while the vision of Reinette rang like a minstrel carousing through his head.

_Leaves upon fire, her face,  
_ _For she lies on the brink of a chasm._

_Drink, she will not.  
_ _For light bears the darkness,  
_ _the cold inside,_ _the creature that is not among us._

_Eat, she will for her crime.  
_ _Hunger without end.  
_ _Grief without fury._

By the time the clock had struck seven, he was no longer looking at the files. Instead holding his hands to the back of his head, his eyes closed as he repeated the first line. _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm._ His brooding interrupted by the sound of the doors crashing open. Weylan almost falling from a wooden ladder, while Lucian maintained his peace, merely glancing towards the doors before returning to his thoughts. _Apparently they were not the only ones to break a rule this morning._ _  
_

The moment stretching for the length it took Raze to eye them both to high treason before shutting the door behind him. Shoulders stiff as he stalked into their midst, removing his coat and dropping it on one of the chairs. His eyes brutal as he proceeded to roughly hoist up one of the boxes Weylan had left in front of Lucian. _Marsden._ Without a word, he carried the box several tables down. Flipping the cover open and selecting a file at random before taking a seat. _The scent of hostility only somewhat muted by the ten feet Raze had decided to put between their respective tables…_

A further twenty seconds managing to elapse before Lucian felt his balls take over. "Weylan, is it me or is Raze looking a bit thin on the ranks?"

Raze turned a page without speaking. The pissing contest taking a further three minutes to get started, this time with a grim mutter instead of a growl. "It was _not_ a mutiny, Lucian."

"Oh please…" With a roll of the eyes, he pulled another file from the box of Finnegan. Everything to do with the kitchen accounts of the House of Finnegan between the years 1840 and 1845. _Rationing. Food stamps. Orders. So far he had not seen a single reference to the name Grace._

Having regained his balance, Weylan seemed more controlled than Taylor had been the previous night. The lone wolf standing between two alphas in the midst of conflict. His arms full of papers, he climbed down from his ladder, stepped around Raze and deposited the files on the table. "I've taken the liberty of finding everything under Douglas, Stafford, and McIlroy, sir." His need for constant diplomacy causing him to turn to Raze, bowing in deference. "…and though my sentiments are _late_ , Master Raze…" He maintained his position, offering a scent of profound respect. "…I would like to begin by offering my sincerest apologies for…"

"No explanation is necessary, soldier." Raze was scowling at the file he was studying. And then with a terse glance at Weylan, he indicated the back room. "Have you pulled the files on Rena?"

"No, he has _not_ pulled the files on Rena," Lucian retorted from his side of the room. _He'd told Weylan to focus on the Marsdens and Finnegans. Not the bloody history they already knew._

Weylan said nothing. Clearly waiting to see how things would proceed. _The scent hinting at a full-scale brawl, while the scrolls, papers, and books above their heads pleaded for some form of decorum._ _  
_

Raze adjusted his jaw. "Are we leaving stones unturned now?"

"Only the innocent ones." Lucian indicated a filing cabinet. "But please, waste your time," he said. "The rest of us will simply have to 'make do' with basic logic."

In answer, Raze smacked the file he was perusing loudly onto the table and then quietly selected another file. The smell starting to seethe, the scowl never seeming to end, until finally the man spoke again. His words a quiet murmur, echoing like thieves in a library after the doors had been locked. "You Changed before we could transfer you to the safe-house."

"Which _explains_ why I woke up in a prison cell." Lucian dropped the kitchen accounts and switched over the next file. _Page after page of household records._

"I am _trying_ …" There came a long-suffering hiss from Raze's teeth. "…to explain what happened…"

"No excuses, Raze." He was flipping through the logbook. _Stables. Groundskeeping. Tunnel maintenance._ He flipped it shut. "Your wife happened. So if you want to _talk_ about why I'm facing a charge of _non compos mentis_ right now, then talk," he said. "But if I so much as breathe that woman's scent before the new year, Raze, I _will_ eviscerate her with your mourning knife."

There was a crash as Raze abruptly shoved one of the boxes off the table. Abandoning his chair and sweeping over to the file-cabinet left open by Weylan. Starting to comb through the folders one at a time. "Can you even smell how unstable you are?"

"Oh I'm sorry, is my smell getting in the way of your air?" Unable to move without his knee threatening to fall off, Lucian got up, stabbing the logbook back into its box. "Here…" He picked up his box. "Why don't I move to the other side of the room so you can breathe properly?" He limped to where the maps were and dropped the box loudly on the table, proceeding to raise his arms and indicate the distance between their two tables. "Is that better?

There was no answer.

Raze choosing to block his field of vision with a grim turn of his head. _As though somehow that was more mature than telling someone to fuck off with their right hand._

Shoving a chair back, Lucian returned the favour and then took hold of the table, unrolling one of the maps and starting to go through the list of properties again. The small tremor in his right hand continuing to mock him as he started to mark every entrance to the catacombs. Every blood-forsaken part of his body was about to crawl out of his skin. _Yes, he was unstable._ _Yes, he was aware of it._ _And no, there was not a damn thing he could do about it—not unless Raze had a pharmacy in his back-pocket and somehow the blood-forsaken knowledge necessary for giving him a dose without causing his heart to stop._

Several minutes passing before he was aware of another chair scrapping along the marble floor until it was directly across from him. Raze as usual electing _not_ to fuck off, and instead opting to weather the storm before battening down the hatches. _Their decision to work together_ _regardless of the surrounding mood having been the key to most of their military successes._ Both of them poring over the map in silence, the one marking the entrances while the other began the arduous task of circling the ones connected to the London den. His ability to focus on the map akin to a child learning sums for the first time. _The feeling of desperation starting to weigh on his scent._

Rather than admit this was a fool's errand, he took a step back, starting to circle the table. Careful not to turn on his right leg. Placing his palms on the edges of the map. Trying to connect the dots. Trying to see the lines that connected them. The words of Reinette rising in his conscience, repeating themselves, over and over. _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm._

He sat down.

 _What chasm,_ he wondered. _Was there a chasm near the London den?_ He was thwacking the graphite stylus in time to the words. _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm._ Rubbing the centre of his head, trying to think, think, think… _Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of…_

"Tilbury, sir?"

His stylus dropped. His tendency to mutter things out loud making him wonder if he was hearing things again. _Tilbury._ He squinted, staring at the map in front of him…and then turned to look behind him. For it was like hearing a voice from God, his need…his desire to understand those words…somehow centring on this innocuous creature. This unlikely source of all things God-like. His mouth finally able to conjure some form of response. "What did you say?"

Like a peasant tending the grave of a long-forgotten king, Weylan continued his simple task. His back bent over in honourable service as he gathered up pages from the marble floor. Tapping the edges of each stack against the wall until they were aligned. Placing each stack back in its respective folder and then placing each folder, one by one, back into its box. And then he looked up, seemingly unaware of the monumental reaction he was about to cause. "The line, sir." He looked mildly curious and then switched to Russian. "Leaves upon fire, her face, for she lies on the brink of a chasm _,"_ he quoted before switching back to English. "It's from Tilbury, is it not?"

Lucian stared...and then lunged forward. His senses tuned to the sound of a wooden chair scraping against marble. Papers scattering across the floor. His knee forgotten, his pain inconsequential for he had crossed the room too quickly for his mind to be wary of it. His veins beating against his skin as he wrenched Weylan up by his shirt, shoving him up against the wall and holding him prisoner by his collar-bone. "What do you mean it's from ' _Tilbury_ '?"

"You were repeating a quote, sir." Somehow there was still one paper left in Weylan's hands. The surprise on his face apparent, but his voice one of complete control despite his shoulder starting to crack. "I thought it was from a poem called 'Tilbury.'"

He was aware of Raze trying to cut in. His nails growing in response until all three of them grew still. Blood starting to drip marginally from Weylan's neck. Raze loosening his grip on both shoulders…and then reluctantly taking a step back. Aware that the nails could continue to grow and although painful for Weylan, it would neither kill nor maim…it would only _hold_ until the questioning was done. "A poem?"

Weylan nodded. He was clearly in more pain than he was used to. The flourishes gone, leaving behind a man of efficiency. "Her leaves upon fire, her face in the mire, for she lies in the brink of the deep.'" He spoke it quickly in English, the words carrying the same tone, familiar and yet entirely foreign. _All this time he'd been thinking the words in Russian._ "It tells of an English fireship, sir…she was sunk during an attack on the city of Tilbury."

_"When?"_

"1667." Weylan had closed his eyes. "The Anglo-Dutch wars, sir."

" _Where_ exactly in Tilbury?'"

Weylan shook his head. "I…I don't know, sir." He was clearly grasping at strands of his memory. "I know the history of the area, but…the verse itself…I only heard it once. I expect the writer had some…location…in mind."

He gripped Weylan's collar _tight_ around his neck. "Who's the _writer?_ "

"It was…" Weylan was as close to panicking as he had ever come. "…it was…several years ago, sir." He was so clearly trying to remember. "I _honestly_ did not think to ask…"

"…and the rest of the verses?" He was almost clawing the veins out of of Weylan's neck. "Do you remember the rest of the verses," he barked. Switching his tactics…instead trying to jog the man's memory with Russian. "Drink, she will not. For light bears the darkness, the cold inside, the creature that is not among us! Do you remember that?"

To his disappointment, Weylan had to close his eyes in order to speak. "I'm afraid not, sir."

In the corner of his vision, he could see Raze looking stunned, not so much by the closed eyes of a lycan soldier…but by the one holding him up by his throat. And so he should. _For he had not shared the verses before. Not with anyone._ _Only Reinette knew what visions she had seen in Sabine's blood._

 _No matter._ He moved on to the next verse. _"_ Think hard, soldier." He meant it to come across as encouraging. "Eat, she will for her crime. Hunger without end. Grief without fury." He was practically yelling it in the man's face. "Does that sound familiar?"

"I...I don't know, sir." Weylan was staring past him at the far wall. He was having trouble getting out his words. "I can only remember the one line."

He felt his nails growing. "How can you only remember _one_ line?"

"Lucian…" He could hear Raze's voice in his ear. _Lucian, you must let go of him._ The pressure of a hand resuming its grip on his shoulder. Careful not to push him further, yet holding him back from from further damage. "…you need to let go."

He was trying to let go…

…but he needed more. _Lo_ _cation. Specifics. He needed to understand how of all the verses Weylan could remember, that was the only one._ The lack of blood in Weylan's face finally calling him back to reason. _His senses finally aware of his knee threatening to crack again. Seven hours with a silver bullet lodged inside the bone…it would be a wonder if he could heal before the next full moon._

His claws retracted like a sword sheathing itself into flesh. Blood on his hands for the second time this morning and his knee throbbing as though Fate had taken a hammer to every nerve.

"Tilbury." He could hear himself muttering. More to himself than the others. His hands rising to his hair, using his fingers to shift the locks back and forth, like a madman trying to press a key in all the wrong places. _It was possible. There were docks in Tilbury…_ Trying to trust that this was exactly what he had bargained for, that Reinette had not been lying, that to have a blood-seer on your side was to see the events as they might transpire… _The possibility that she could have seen this moment. That in a vision, she might have heard him say that line…and then repeated it back to him…for how else would she have known how to say it in Russian. The mysteries of the blood-seers altogether_ _too much for a leader to think on for it was the blood-seer who spoke…and the listener who acted._

And then he laughed.

 _This was what he had bargained for,_ he realised _._ Staring at his hands and understanding for the first time that they were powerless. _That if he wanted to save Sabine,_ _then he must believe in the words of another. Believe in this hand of Fate that even Blackmarks were willing to steal._ A sense of calm starting to settle on him for the first time in hours. His decision made as he started to limp towards the table. "I need a map of Tilbury," he said. "Immediately."

They could smell the change on him. With his hand still clutched at his neck, Weylan rose from his crouch and bowed. Wiping the blood off his collar-bone and footing it to the maps drawer. Scanning the labels with his finger, finding the right drawer, and starting to thumb through the different rolls until he found the one he was looking for. _Tilbury._ The drawer shut, the map only marginally stained with blood, and Weylan already footing it back to the table with his prize. It took less than fifteen seconds. His manner resuming its efficiency and his bow returning as he unrolled the map. "Sir," he said, breathing hard from the exertion and then taking a step back. _  
_

Raze was looking increasingly strained. "Lucian, how can you…" He seemed to have difficulty phrasing his question. "… _what_ are you basing this on?"

He shrugged past Raze. "Call it a hunch."

"No," said Raze with a very firm stance of clarity. _Managing to toe_ _the line of sarcasm, despite his regular conversation being quite averse to anything but honest and blunt conversation._ "You are basing this on a _verse_ , Lucian." It was almost accusatory. His voice becoming increasingly deep, his words spoken with precision, a sign that there was a severe storm starting to build. "A verse that has _nothing_ …whatsoever…to do with Sabine."

"Then continue your search in London," he replied. He was already marking tunnels. The stylus retrieved from the other side of the table and his chair pulled up so that he could sit. _Trying to see how Tilbury could be their destination. She had told him once. 'They do not always come true. They are only prospects.'_ And yet her words were the only lifeline he had. Sabine lost in this great city…and his eyes scanning the map for connections.

Trying to see how the underground…how his territory…could possibly sustain a connection to Tilbury. Two locations that could not be on the same Line. Not by any stretch of the imagination for one was a berth of vampire exiles while the other was one of the most heavily protected dens in the western world. _They simply did not connect. Their search of the surrounding grounds of the lycan den suggesting that no one…not anyone could have escaped over ground. Which meant that somehow…not only had the perpetrators escaped his den…_

 _…but somehow…they used a connection that could lead them straight to Tilbury. From his den._ The thought making him feel…confused. Irritated. _In fact, how the fuck did someone connect his den to Tilbury without him knowing?_

"Lucian?"

He looked up…and then dropped his stylus. He was _not_ going to sustain the conversation. "What do you want me to say, Raze?"

"I want you to _look_ at what you are doing." Raze was clearly at the start of a rehearsed conversation. _He always gestured whenever he had rehearsed something._ Perhaps a speech that Allegra had suggested. "Truly _look_ at yourself and tell me if you think this is sanity."

"I certainly don't think it's _in-_ sanity."

"So how can you reconcile yourself with Tilbury?" While he was feeling remarkably calm for the first time that morning, Raze was starting to raise his voice. "It is madness. If the Blackmarks have taken Sabine, they would avoid Tilbury. There is nothing in Tilbury for the Blackmarks except…"

"An abandoned distillery district in the business of making scent-cards," he said, picking up his stylus again. It was starting to become very clear now. _In fact he was mildly offended by how long it took for his own intellect to string this one together. However tight a ship they were running, it was entirely possible that someone was using the scent brewery for their own purposes._ "Because that is what Tilbury is known for, is it not?" Using the stylus, he touched the tip of three fingers. "Exiles…scent-cards…and a port."

Raze was not budging. "The port is a safe-haven for exiles, Lucian, and it is guarded by lycans." He did not need to indicate the kind of lycans that guarded the exiles of Tilbury. _And considering there had been no deaths registered from Tilbury, it would be highly improbable that any of the murders could have originated from a territory where lycans lived with bloods._ "Any Blackmarks trying to smuggle a child of your blood would be heading north. They'd be avoiding every intersection on the Line, including Tilbury."

"Except they're not transporting a child of lycan blood, are they?" He circled the port of Tilbury. "They're transporting _a_ Blood." He drew a line from the port of Tilbury across the channel to Calais and then down to Le Havre. "…and as long as they can blend in with the locals, Raze, the moment they cross that channel, we will have lost them both."

Raze was starting to realise where he was going with this. "Both?" he said. Placing both his hands firmly on the other side of the map. Like the guardian of all things prudent. "Lucian, I thought we were hunting Sabine."

"We are hunting _quarry,_ " said Lucian. He was starting to lean over the map. "…and if you will admit that our quarry has different concerns than _my_ blood, then you could see that our chances of finding them are tied with that blood-seer."

Raze smacked his fist against the map. "Lucian, you must trust me." By his smell, he was speaking from the heart. "I know what you think you saw, but I _went_ into the East Wing, Lucian…I saw what you saw and I am telling you…there was only _ash_."

"Only because ash always looks the same to you people." Neglecting to see the irony, he put his hand to one side of the map, and then pulled, ripping the parchment in half. _He only needed the right side in any case._ Handing the torn piece to Weylan, he reached for his coat, using a chair to balance himself as he retrieved it from the dusty floor. "Stay if you like, Raze. Check the records. Search the maps." He shrugged his coat on. "…but do not linger more than necessary."

"This is _insanity_ , Lucian."

"No, Raze…this is a gamble." He was already walking away. His hand on Weylan's shoulder. His mind already twenty miles away. The port of Tilbury. _There were three tunnels that led in that general direction. Belvedere, Dartford, and Rainham. All three required climbing…all three required running for between eight and nine hours._ If the perpetrators had been travelling for the past twelve hours, he could already assume they had reached their destination. _Which meant they needed something faster than legs._

_o…o…o_

_Two hours later..._

Reinette woke to find herself horizontal. The fabric beneath her neck itching like lice. The ceiling above her head made from a thousand torches. She could see shadows dancing in the dark. Faces in the corner of her eyes. A sickness waging its own war in her chest. She coughed. The sound of blood sputtering from her throat and her neck too weak to turn on its side. _Her skull._ It felt like her skull was on fire. She could hear flies. Insects crawling over her hair. Trying to sit up and finding her arms were bound. Her throat tied to the wooden table beneath her skull.

A sound to her right. _Like a saw cutting through wood. Metals instruments being shifted against one another._ Her ears and eyes not working properly. _She couldn't see beyond the torches._ Her throat finally managing to croak his name. _The only name she could think to use…for she would not call him Hrafn._ Not now. Not ever.

"Kolya…"

Immediately, she felt a hand on her cheek. Deathly cold, the fingers reaching toward her forehead and then touching her on the lips. "You must not wake yet," he said in Russian. His voice so beautiful and yet so ominous. His face was blurry…swatches of red and black smeared across an open plain. _His eye was missing._ _  
_

"What have you…" She was starting to drift. Her voice softer than his breathing, every word sucking the energy from her like blood. "….what have you…done to me?"

He leaned over her body. His eye as black as the souls harboured in his veins. "You must sleep," he said. "Sleep and heal."

 _What…_ She was starting to remember. Her reflection in his eyes. _She remembered being in a tunnel. Fleeing the light and running towards the darkness. Why had she been fleeing the light?_ The memory lost to her as her thoughts dipped below the realm of consciousness. Faces appearing and disappearing again. She saw something. Waiting for her in the dark. A beast. An animal. He was sharpening his knife. Carving through the mound of bodies at his feet. Throwing them into the gaping mouth of a blazing oven. _Burning away their tracks._ In the dream, she stood at his side. A knife in her hand. Slitting the throat of a small child…her hair as red as poppies. Her eyes grey as a winter's sun.

She screamed.

_o…o…o_

_Meanwhile._

They had left Raze at the Lycan Registry. Their exit far simpler than their entry now that the more reasonable of their number was in the building. His decision to 'let them go' providing just enough confusion to warrant an easy escape without any chance of detention. Once on the outside of the registry, it was a simple matter of going west. Their journey starting by foot from the Registry to the railway station at Fenchurch Street…and his leg slowing them down to the walking pace of a mortal. _A measure of fifteen minutes rather than ten._ From Fenchurch Street, they travelled east, boarding the London, Tilbury, and Southend Railway. _The train useful in its provision of seating._ Weylan purchasing their tickets, while Lucian lingered in the corner of people's eyes. His face hidden and the daytime traffic managing to give them some cover. _  
_

The journey passing in a blur, one in which he refused to question whether Raze had been right. His decision to act without thought providing him with some sense of direction. They disembarked at the Tilbury Riverside station. The pier giving them access, almost immediately, to the tunnels of those lycans whose livelihoods were based on the rules of curfew and safety. _Men and women who lived on the outskirts of the lycan underworld. Lone wolves who failed to connect with the safety of the lycan den. People like Owen Atherton. James Sewell. Gwen Saunders. All of them on his list…and many of them living a life that he envied._

When they finally ducked into the tunnels of Tilbury, he found himself at a loss for the first time in hours. Weylan looking at him to choose a direction. _The lycan guardhouse. The abandoned brewery. The exile's port._ Most of the places would be guarded…and if the perpetrators were still holding Sabine…or even Reinette…they might linger below ground for as long as necessary. The tunnels altogether unknown to him…and the map giving him less information than the vision. _A tangled mess of tunnels that made him want to turn the map several times._ For once in his life, feeling the weight that came with being trapped in an underground labyrinth. In theory he knew where they were…

…but with four dozen trails criss-crossing these tunnels, he simply lacked the time to explore them all. The complexity of the Tilbury tunnels finally causing him to use his leg as an excuse to stop and think for a few minutes. Taking time to peel away the gauze and wince at the festering wound. _A mixture of red and yellow pus starting to congeal where the bullet had been_. _Small sections of his flesh starting to turn an unhealthy shade of black._

_Definitely not right._

Rather than deal with the issue, he ignored Weylan's advice to cut away the dead skin. Instead, he took a swig of water, poured an additional dose on the dead skin, and then sat back, allowing Weylan to sequester the knee in gauze for a second time. The sensation of pain relatively familiar to him…and now his hunger starting to pick at the edges of his stomach. _Food would have helped. But too late as usual._

As soon as the binding was done, he resumed his stance again, using the wall to keep himself upright. Still trying to decide which way to go. _Suddenly wary of what he was doing here in the first place._ _Why he had followed those words. Why he had trusted in those three lines of verse when for all he knew, Reinette might be the culprit. She was poison. Her scent full of malice, her words like broken glass. And yet here he was following her._

"Sir?"

He looked down…and then to the right when it became apparent that Weylan had already packed away the medical kit. There was still blood on the man's collar. Something they had managed to hide while travelling for two hours among mortals. "What?"

"Do we have a destination, sir?"

"No, Weylan." As usual, he was less interested in the voice of Weylan than his own inner dialogue. _The fact that he had fucked this hunt up before it had even started. The fact that Sabine could be dead. The fact that his laudanum was starting to wear off._ He continued walking. "We don't have a destination."

Weylan nodded, slowing his pace down a little to walk beside. "And if I may be so bold, sir…" He indicated the cross-roads ahead of them. "…is there a particular direction that you wish to scout?"

Lucian inhaled, thinking on the question…trying to involve himself in a way that would make it less obvious how tired he was. Their location still some distance yet from the actual dock where the exiles disembarked. _He could run ahead…or have Weylan run ahead…because in all honesty…and this was truly the rub…he could no longer run._ He could walk. He could crawl. But there would be no running involved. _Not after the hell he'd put his knee through over the past eight or nine hours._ That fact suddenly making him a tick more than wary. The analytical side of his brain suddenly aware of what he was walking towards. _  
_

_For if Reinette was right about this..._

_…and he wanted her to be right. It meant that at the end of this hunt, he would be facing Blackmarks._ _A mutinous horde of lycan Blackmarks._ His eyes suddenly locking on the back of Weylan who, despite his position, was only a mere sixty-or-so in mortal years. Ten years too young for the last open lycan rebellion. A thought that made him wonder in turn what kind of supplies they were carrying.

He squinted, thinking back on the inventory he'd seen while the medical kit was out. The pack looking remarkably smaller now that he was keen to take a closer look. Something he had neglected to do during his foray of escaping…biting…and running.

 _What the hell is on your back,_ he wondered distantly. Trying to reconcile what he was seeing with the situation they were walking into. _Four blades. Two semi-automatic pistols. Several rounds of ammunition. Enough for a single lycan at the peak of his condition._ Perhaps his face was speaking for him because Weylan was starting to look uncomfortable with the fact that he was staring rather intensely at their supply pack. _It was…ludicrous. Was he expecting them each to use a pistol? One pistol for each lycan and two blades to balance out the picture…_

_…_ _w_ _ho the hell could take on a contingent of Blackmarks with two blades and a bloody pistol?_

He almost snorted out loud.

 _Blood, but they were getting cocky,_ he thought _._ _And who could blame them_ , he decided abruptly, letting his shoulder sink a little more against the wall. _With enough of them Changing without the moon, their society was becoming less and less concerned with logistics._ He tried to take another step. _Particularly_ _when one had claws._ _But without the speed..._

_…well in that case, he hoped to Blood his aim would be getting more precise in the next few hours._

The part of him that still counted distantly aware that he had failed to answer Weylan's question. Weylan seeming to cue in to the fact that he'd been staring at a blank piece of wall for the past forty-six seconds and was looking more dazed than usual. "Sir?" he said again. "Do you wish to hold this section of the tunnel?" He indicated the area ahead of them. "I can do a cursory search of any scent-markers, if you wish?"

Lucian thought about it. Probably for far longer than necessary. _In fact, he could barely conjure an answer at this point._ His eyes starting to squint in the dark. _What the hell did that mean? Was he having trouble seeing in the dark,_ he wondered. _And how long since he'd slept?_

Weylan was saying something. He shrugged the man's hand off his shoulder and continued walking. The words of Reinette again entering his conscious. _Drink, she will not f_ _or light bears the darkness,_ _the cold inside,_ _the creature that is not among us._ _Eat, she will for her crime._ _Hunger without end._ _Grief without fury._ None of it made sense. He'd recited the second part of the quote for Weylan during their train ride. This time with a dose of more calm and less shouting, but the man had again been less than helpful. His memory of the first line extending only as far as…

...well, the first line.

"Sir?"

 _Do the children of this age never rest,_ he thought. "What is it now?"

"Sir, I am…" Weylan looked truly sorry to have to say it. "…wondering if we should break for camp, sir."

"Why?"

"Well…" They were clearly reaching the awkward stretch of the conversation. He trying to find a reason not to look down, while Weylan made no bones about staring at the dark patch where his knee had _again_ started to bleed through. "…it would appear that you need to rest, sir…"

_Really._

Because he'd considered that possibility. _For despite having Changed several times during the previous evening, he had not…actually…gotten any sleep the previous night. He'd only blacked out while the rest of his body continued pacing his cage, the beast inside perfectly comfortable with using most of his energy without returning the favour_. Usually he could remember things when he Changed. Like travelling through a blue haze in which one dabbled in such fanciful activities as terrorising the lives of women and children. He could feel his eyes starting to glaze in the dark tunnel. His hand slipping against the wall. _He could rest..._

 _…then again, rest was for mortals. Hunters whose guts were about to be torn apart by wolves on a grim winter's night._ He cracked his neck, forcing himself to take another step. "Keep walking," he said, no longer interested in the opinion of Weylan. _He would walk these tunnels until he found them. He would crawl on his knees if he had to. Certainly if Reinette could spend several months crawling through a rat-infested tunnel, then the least he could do was survive one day._

Weylan had not moved. "Sir, I just think it would be more prudent if we…"

A scream cut into their conversation.

Both of their heads jerking towards the right. Far off in the distance. The sense that it came from the north, though it was difficult to get a handle on where the echo was coming from. His heart beating with a sudden wave of adrenaline. _The kind that woke him up from his daze. His ears pricked towards the sound. His legs once again capable of walking rather than crawling._ Ever ready to demonstrate his prowess, Weylan was the first one to dart into the tunnels, the trail of his movements allowing him to follow after. _Practically dragging the infected knee._ The scent starting to grow more complex the closer he came to the trail. Layers of smoke woven with dirt and rats and iron.

The search ending in a crossroads. Four tunnels they could enter and nary a scent to be found. _There was no sign of the screamer. No sense that they were following anything but the echoes of a ghost._ Weylan had pulled the map from their supply-pack. The tunnels laid out on the parchment and the markers on the wall giving them some sense of where they were heading. _North…and then east._

_…and now this cross-roads._

_Which way to go?_ The first tunnel leading to the docks, the second to the level below, the third to a level above, and the fourth to the pauper's district. He let himself slide to the floor, more from exhaustion than anything else. Rocks and bones at his backside…the map between his fingers…and a decision to be made. _They needed to follow that scream. It was all he had in this labyrinth of chance that Reinette had led him down._ Weylan giving him enough space to make his choice. Standing back and letting him examine the tunnels laid out on the map, one by one, at times, using lycan hand signals to direct his attention.

_The walls of this particular cross-roads were made of brick. Older than the section they had come from, but still new enough to have been built in the last century. The grates were made of iron. The smells causing even the dullest nose to flinch. Sewage and water fighting each other for a place in the lower reaches._

He was using the last of his adrenaline. Searching the ground for signs from afar. _Tracks. Scent. Sound._ The dust of one tunnel lying untampered, but the other three covered in tracks. Hordes of people walking in the dust and none of them turning towards that tunnel. Making him wonder why no one seemed to walk through that tunnel. _As though it had been forgotten for many years._

His thoughts going silent as he suddenly heard something. A change in the flow of water. _Something so subtle that he might have imagined it in his current state of mind._ But choosing to follow his instincts, as he'd done since the previous night, he glanced behind him at Weylan and then motioned the man to hold his breath. Two fingers to the throat. Doing the same as he inclined his neck, looking from tunnel to tunnel. Listening…and then directing Weylan's gaze towards the tunnel with no tracks. Taking one of the pistols and placing it in the side of his coat, a round of ammunition and finally a blade from the man's outstretched hand. Armed and slowly, ever so slowly, taking a step into the tunnel.

Following the length of it until he reached another crossroads. Every step filled with agony and the network of tunnels going on for miles ahead of them. _He could have sworn that he heard something._ His ears pricked towards the water as he listened, waiting for a sign. Waiting and listening until he saw it. _Something so obvious that one needed to stand upon it before they could sense it._ The water passing furiously below, the smell speaking of fish and rot and bile…and beneath all of that, a single…silver…eye peering from out of the dark.

Without moving, he beckoned for Weylan to come forward with two fingers. _Swiftly…but quietly._ She was in the sewage tunnel below their feet. Crouching in the water. Shivering. Her teeth grown and her back arched. Her dress covered in the filth of her hiding place. His knife slowly placed to one side as he knelt, carefully unlatching the grid cover with Weylan's help. Taking hold of the edge and reaching into the lower tunnel, drawing her out and up into his arms. A thin blanket from Weylan's supplies folded around her shoulders and head, smoothing the damp away before he stepped back into the tunnel, retracing their steps. Setting her down on the blanket when they reached the crossroads and checking her eyes.

 _Dilated_. The pupils showing a glaze of silver. A child forced into a state of Change without the moon, only limited by her age. Her mind that of a lycan pup, thinking only of danger and self. Their base scents matching enough that he could pick her up. _Weylan, on the other hand, would have to suffer a bite or two._ With a nod, he motioned the man to come forward. Drawing the second scent into her environment. Like coaxing a fox out of its hole, he needed her to accept the scent of Weylan _._ About to have the man hold out his hand so she could smell it. Only to find that time was no longer on their side.

Footsteps echoing down the tunnel, accompanied by the sound of a metal instrument. _Clack._

_Clack._

Like a rapier clacking against the bricks. Sabine's scent started to spike with the sound. _The hunter that had been following her._ _Clack._

 _It was coming this way._ He picked up the child, blanket and all, and gave her to Weylan. Like throwing a cat onto an unsuspecting hound, but there was no time to make her comfortable. No time to avoid the bites. _Run_ , he signalled. _Silent. Back the way we came. Take the first tunnel to the docks. Find a safe-house before the sun goes down._

_Clack._

Weylan took everything. The supplies, the child, and the blanket. Silent steps through the tunnel.

_Clack. Clack._

With his back to the wall, Lucian breathed…and then removed the pistol from his coat. _He'd left the blade at the grate…which left him with only claws and two rounds of ammunition._ Picking up a pebble, he flicked it into one of the other tunnels. Immediately the footsteps stopped. _The hunter becoming the hunted._ _All he needed to do was distract whoever it was. Keep them listening. Keep them talking so that Weylan could get her out._ The head of the hunter finally appearing around the bend of the tunnel. Someone he had not expected to see. The surprise palpable on both their faces.

"Mr. Itzhak." Kolya smiled, causing his teeth to bare. He was missing an eye. "What a pleasure it is to…"

He cut the man off with a bullet. The steel piercing the vampire's abdomen six times, spewing blood on the ground as he reloaded, shooting him a further six times in the exact same spot. _Not bad for someone who was going through a withdrawal. His experience with vampires having already taught him long ago that shooting with steel did very little damage to the skull…but pain…well that could still have an effect on someone. An effect that was really quite profound based on the pain-riddled sounds that were coming out of Kolya's throat._

The same pain wheezing through his lungs as he fired his last bullet. Pulling himself to the one knee, the act of standing taking far longer than he expected, but the effect altogether worth it when all was said and done. _This was his heaven._ The few moments in life when he got to drop an empty gun on the floor and _bask_ in the sound of his enemy's pain. "Do you know where I just shot you, Nikolai?"

The vampire was curled into a ball. Gritting his teeth, hissing as though he wanted to burn him for his impudence. Oh _yes._ _He was familiar with that scent._ _Something he might have spotted earlier, if he'd not been so busy purchasing a dozen rounds of annual transport over the next five years._

There was no answer.

_No surprise there._

"Lower abdomen," he explained. Refusing to let go of such an engaging _last_ conversation. Lowering himself to the ground, taking a breather against the brick wall. "See, the thing is," he added. "... even though you're… _technically…_ impervious to these bullets…" He shrugged. "…I just thought…what the hell…twelve times…in the lower abdomen…that is _bound_ to make you feel something."

 _He was only too right._ Kolya rising to his knees with a beleaguered hiss, half of his face coated in blood, one of his eyes missing as though it had been scratched from his skull…and a silver knife in his hand. A blade that ought to have been caught out of hand. Something he ought to have been ready for if he'd not spent the past century courting his death. _He'd been asking for it long enough,_ he realised _._ His hand raising briefly to his throat…searching for the chain that was no longer there…and then letting his fist fall to the floor. _The truth was he'd stopped wearing it. Centuries ago._

Before a thought could turn into memory, the vampire lunged forward. His breath moving in the same second. _Every second that his mind could count before he realised it was done. Death was upon him._ He sucked in air, staring at the silver blade that had been stabbed through his gut. _How many times had this happened…times when he'd been able to call up the strength to pull it out._ The flesh starting to sear around the wound, making him want to empty his stomach on the floor. His regrets starting to coagulate. Following him to the grave as he thought about what he might have done if he'd had the time for it…

…and then he bared his teeth in a grimace. Blood pooling in his throat. _The truth being that he no longer wanted to pull out the silver. He wanted to follow it._ His eyes starting to see beyond the grey…beyond the void as his heart began to slow. Every second drawing him closer to the end. _To the moment when it would all become worth it. For h_ _e would pass from this life and into the next world_ _ _…__

__…_ he would see her._

_Sonja._

A dreadful weight falling from his shoulders for in death, he would see her. He would say her name. _Sonja. His wife. The emptiness of his soul hungering for her memory._ The moment growing closer…and closer…and then ending with an agonising jerk. _A cry of pain that he had not meant to utter._ His eyes straining for sight, looking through the dark, and finally daring to see what they would not. A silver blade, sizzling with his blood, being wiped upon his chest, while Nikolai Proshkov Andreev stared down at him from above, unwilling to give him what he had just offered. His killer instead starting to roll up his sleeves, as though keeping lycan blood off his shirt still mattered…leaving him with just enough time to tighten his neck before the fist struck his face. _Over…and over…again._

His teeth spitting blood. Flesh. _A beating the likes of which he had not felt in six hundred years._ _Twenty-seven times._ The silver searing across his throat, his back, his arms…every minute drawing him back to life even as his consciousness began to fade. The twenty-eighth and final blow so excruciating that he only had enough air to scream when the hilt of the silver blade smashed into his kneecap. The bone shattering into a dozen pieces. The pain enough for him to choke on his own vomit. Death creeping up on him…and then wandering away again. _For it would seem his gamble was not quite ready to kill him yet._

 _Coward,_ he thought. Choosing to spit on the man's feet even as his world turned to black.

_His counting finally at the cusp of a merciful end._


	58. A Grinding of Teeth

**Chapter LVIII: A Grinding of Teeth**

_April 24, 1900. 10:40 am_

_The Tilbury Garrison_

It took an hour for news to rise up the chain of command, travelling up and then swiftly across the Line, causing lycan transmitters to curse at every dot and dash spelling disaster. The sudden disappearance of the greatest leader of the lycan horde creating widespread panic, and among other things, the possibility of a coup d'état. Whispers said it was only a matter of time before one or more members of the Lycan Council reneged their vows, while they waited for news from the military.

It was said Raze would be leading the next incursion into the tunnels. The autonomy of the London Den swiftly reinstated once it became clear that any charges could wait until all parties were safe in hand. Two contingents had been sent to comb the tunnels for the last known location of the lycan-master. Despite their best efforts, they had found nothing. _No blood. No bullet casings. No weapons._  As though even now, someone was still cleaning the underworld of their presence. Determined to wipe away every trace of their mishaps.

Weylan sat in an interrogation cell at the Tilbury garrison, waiting for the next officer to tear into him for venturing into the underground without appropriate clearance. He could no longer count the number of times he'd explained what had happened.  _A sound. Clacking. The lycan-master had ordered him to retreat. Run_ , he'd signalled.  _Silent. Back the way we came. Take the first tunnel to the docks. Find a safe-house before the sun goes down._

He was no longer pristine. His fine hair sticking up and out and every which way, his skin perspiring in the heat.  _It was true he'd never served in a red zone,_ he realised.  _True that he'd been looking to impress when he threw in with the Tilbury expedition._  He'd been expecting adventure.  _A frightened security guard at most._

The youngest advisor to the most infamous lycan in history…and this was his legacy.  _Fear._  Running as fast as he could with Sabine in his arms, the reflection in her eyes serving as a reminder of what he protected.  _His own skin making him run faster than he'd every run in his life._ He'd heard shots being fired behind him. Six shots fired in succession, followed by another six shots…

…he'd wanted to turn around…but he could not.  _Not until the child was in a safe-house above ground. Not until he'd followed the lycan-master's instructions to the point,_ he'd told himself. But it was fear that drove him. Fear for his life. Enough to make him think twice on whether it was his scent or Sabine's that stank of piss.

The girl taken from his arms as soon as they reached the safe-house.  _Useless he was._ His arms still covered in scratches, their blood mingling as though somehow her fear had seeped into his veins. He'd felt uncertain for the first time in his life, worrying over her. Picking at the strands of red on his shoulder as they marched him off to the garrison.

 _But she was in good hands_ , he told himself.  _They would be bleeding her…tasting her blood, searching for what knowledge they could piece together. Questionable what knowledge they could discern without a living blood relative to do the tasting…but then he was no expert,_ he decided _._

Since then he'd been locked in a cell, his ears bleeding for whatever news he could scrape together through three walls and a corridor.  _Scent was the word on everyone's tongue._ Voices rising and falling as they discussed what could only be seen as a new weapon, this poisonous gas that could burn away a scent-trail with its presence.

It was the same gas now seeping into the Tilbury tunnels. Forcing all who came upon it to run out of the tunnels, coughing into their hands as though Hades himself had taken residence in the underground. Word had it that Singe was working around the clock, trying to break down the components. Trying to understand what it was made from so they could fight it.  _A scent made of a thousand scents,_ he called it.

The thought distracting him to the point where he almost didn't hear the key turn in the lock of his cell.  _It meant another interrogation, but at least he'd have something to do with himself,_ he thought. The silence, the shame starting to weigh on him when he saw who held the key …the urge to impress still trying to wrestle its way to the surface.

He stumbled to his feet. "Sir."

Raze did not remove his coat. His face blending with the shadows as he swept to the desk in the centre of the cell and unrolled a piece of parchment.

As though still mindful of the one who was not there, he aligned the parchment with the desk…and then stabbed directly in its centre. "This was your last known location?"

Weylan came around to look at the map, at first unfamiliar with what he was seeing. It was all in a different scale, a different angle than the original. He wiped his hands on his breeches, feeling the need to hold back…before turning the parchment clock-wise…reading the legend, searching for the river, the different symbols along the edge.  _Why was he so uncertain?_

The stare, the lengthy pause, spurring him to answer even though he felt unready.

"Yes, sir." His memory still fresh, the lines becoming more familiar as he studied them. "We entered at the Tilbury Riverside Station…" He following the line, pointing to each location. Trying to remember the smudges where Lucian's finger had been. "We walked north…veered south…away from the guardhouse, and then east, towards the docks."

His tone was hopeful.  _The tunnels had been close behind. He could have made it if they just…_

Raze cut it in half. "The docks have been closed since sunrise, Weylan. All exiles restricted to their quarters." He heaved a weary breath. "And there is more," he said. "Twenty minutes ago, Gwen Saunders reported her husband missing. The port-master Ewan Saunders. We have added him to the list of suspects."

_Ewan Saunders._

The name sounded familiar.  _The vampire of Tilbury_ , he realised.  _One out of sixty-three lycan-vampire unions registered within the British Isles. One hundred and twenty six names listed on a piece of parchment…the number updated annually at the behest of the lycan-master._

Raze did not look up from the map. "Did you see the perpetrator?"

"No, sir." He had gone over every detail in his mind. "I heard twelve rounds being expended. There was a blade out of his reach, but he may have been able to reach it in time."

Raze clicked his teeth together. "Not in that state."

It was a simple fact and they both knew it.  _Orders or not, the lycan-master should not have been in those tunnels. Without his stubbornness, they would never have found Sabine. And yet…_

Perhaps his scent was speaking for him. Raze glancing up with a steady gaze, the kind that knew how to calm even the most maddened of souls. The kind that was there for every homesick miscreant and vagabond in his first week in the barracks. "You are not at fault, Weylan."

 _You are wrong,_ he thought bitterly. Keeping his outward appearance calm as he had always been taught. Feeling a chorus of rage threatening to take over his mouth. Guilt-ridden words that had been eating him up since the moment he felt the sunlight on his face. Not even sure where to begin.

He dropped into his chair, letting his chin rest on his hands. Shaking hands. "I left him there." The words tumbled out. "For forty years I have followed him…" He could not even look Raze in the eye. "…and today, I just…"

He couldn't even say it.  _All he could think about was getting away from that sound. That clacking, that incessant clacking._ Dreaming that he was a great warrior before the mirror, only to find in himself running from a sound. A lycan pup fleeing before the enemy had been sighted.  _It should have been him that stayed behind. His teeth before the enemy. Not Lucian._

"You did what was necessary," said Raze calmly. The great warrior still plotting his hunt, he stared at the map for a measure longer and then rolled it up. "Sabine is alive because you were able to run."

Weylan swallowed…and then nodded, curling into himself, breathing hard, trying to find some reason in the frustration he was feeling.  _He was not used to failure. Walking perfection, another lycan had called him once. Sneered it really…but that was the thing._

He'd done it.

_Perfectly._

He'd finished his studies in record time. Late medieval law his first passion, something that led him to delve deep through the history books until a day came when he made more connections than his instructors would condone.  _A day when he came back to his quarters to find a man with discerning eyes, burning his thesis on trials and abomination in the fireplace. Six years of his life on fire._ He'd been incensed…only to find out that the man…

…that immutable man was the subject of his thesis.  _They never spoke about what he'd written, but in time, he found himself assigned not to the lower barracks…but to the upper house._ He'd studied hard. Listened hard.  _Politics. Economics. Languages. Granted he could not…quite…follow Latin as quickly as the lycan-master and Miss Jeanne-Antoinette spoke it; but in every other way, he had been perfect…_

_…and now it was ruined._

He heard the door handle turn. Raze holding it steady…and then letting it go, turning to speak from the door. The burden of the past two nights also weighing on his shoulders.

"You know, if anyone is at fault, Weylan, it is the one who should have gone with him in the first place," he said. "I do not pretend to understand everything that happened in those tunnels…but I do know where I have failed in my duties."

_Failed._

He could not help himself, his doubts creeping into his mind like a cancer.  _Raze had never failed. Raze was stalwart. Strong. Raze would have stood his ground_ , he realised.  _He would never have run._ The shame again threatening to overwhelm him.

Like a great hound nudging his pup, Raze again roused him from his despair. "You've heard of the incursion I expect?"

He nodded weakly.

Raze looked to the side. "Then you know I cannot leave here until it is over," he said.

As always, a great deal of thought seemed to precede every syllable. Only a flicker of a grief showing as the lycan explained what the infirmary had told him _._ The words giving Weylan some reason to pause in the midst of his own turmoil. The possibility of redemption, that he could still be of use now that he had shamed his entire race.

 _It was unfortunate_ , he was told.  _But the girl was not likely to recover soon…and there was need for someone to watch over her until the Lady Allegra arrived._

It was the only instruction Raze gave and then as members of their rank were wont to do, without another word, he was gone. The entire request spoken with no need to speak her name for there was only one whom they could both think on in times such as these.  _One that he could watch over._

_Sabine._

The red strands of her hair still twined on his coat like the last leaves of autumn. His pride, his ideals suddenly paling in comparison to the horror this child had gone through.

Immediately, Weylan stood and called out to the hallway guard, requesting directions to the infirmary where she was being sheltered. The door unlocked. The way open now that Raze had spoken for him.  _The need to prove himself worthy once again. He would do it—he would watch over this child, and on his life…he would keep her safe._

A part of him already knowing that there was more to this child's fate than just a line of poetry. That it was more than just fear that had taken root in her conscience. Her scent in those first seconds of sunlight and safety…starting to fold over on itself.  _A kind of absence settling in the place of fear._ No longer a child on the brink of chaos, but a void. Empty. As though she had seen something that she would never forget, her mind frozen in that single moment. Stuck. Like a clock ticking, but never passing from one second to the next. 

_It reminded him of Lucian of all things._

o…o…o

_The Tilbury Underground_

Meanwhile…

…beneath the garrison, not three hundred feet from where Weylan stood, the exiled vampire Ewan pored over a tattered piece of parchment, clutching his kerchief to his head. The bleeding hole where the old crone had stabbed him _. It was her. He should have known it was her._ Ferocious eyes peering out of an aged face, pretending she could not remember.  _He could almost pity her. But he could not forget._  After all these years, the dead-eyed whisper of death that once trailed the steps of Nikolai Proshkov Andreev.

The stubs of his fingers still itching at the thought.  _The last time he'd seen her. 1634. Just outside of Smolensk._  He'd deserted the Russian camp, taking an old horse and two of their birds for food. She'd caught him at the border. Forced him to turn around and face the wrath of Nikolai. Only to have Nikolai turn his back on him. Banishing him from his sight…the words still haunting him to this day.  _Do what you will with him,_ he had told her.  _Do you what you will._ It had taken three nights for her to do her will. Worse than a rat nibbling at his toes.

"The way is  _shut_ ," he said weakly. The map was in a sorry state. Torn, stained with blood and sewage, but it still served well enough to show their location in the Tilbury Underground. He still did not want to think about whose hands they had got it from. "We may have bought ourselves time with the scent-cover, but they are still watching every entrance."

Nikolai paced before him, clacking his blade against the walls, his rage intensified by his wound. His desire to be gone from this place causing him to lash out on the world. " _Make_  a way."

Ewan sighed.  _Out of all the masks that Nikolai wore, Hrafn was his least favourite_.

"There are four tunnels that I know of leading from this section of the underground." He ran the stub of his index along the map. "The docks, the pauper's district, the one  _he_  came through…" He gestured wildly to their right. "…and the one leading to the den."

 _Blood, that had been a shock._  Nikolai railing about his lady…his promise…how he'd snatch her from the den like a raven.  _Posturing_ , he'd told himself. The knowledge that there was no way to the London den starting to lose its poignancy as they followed Grace to the blood-forsaken London den.  _Grace Marsden of all people._ Leader of the blood-forsaken Blackmarks, smelling like she'd pissed herself three ways and then some.  _All of them smelling of piss in the end._

Seven hours of crawling through tunnels on the brink of collapse and at the end of it all, he'd seen light. Cracks of light through the panelling from a bygone age, the staircase about ready to break beneath their feet as they climbed it. Grace had led them up through the walls, her Little One clutched by the hand as Nikolai prodded them all on with fear and his blood-forsaken matches.

For thirty minutes, they waited in a stone room behind the fireplace while Grace went about her business, setting fires, leaving cards, and the like. Nikolai polishing his silver flask with a vengeance while the rest of them skirted his shadow: the Little One cowering in the corner, the tongue-less Blood too exhausted to do more than gape, and he…just lying there, watching his future burn to a crisp. All of them too tired to do more than march, following the monster who carried their chains.

"We make for the docks as planned." Nikolai veered towards the right, his eye twitching like a maggot crawling out of the dark. "There is time. We will outrun them."

"There is no time," he heard himself whine. "They may not be able to track our scent anymore, but they  _will_  find us within the hour."

_They always did._

_Lycans were hunters,_ he knew _._ Patient, they would circle the entrances, waiting until the prey came to them. One by one, they would pick them off until it was just entrails and teeth waiting for the vultures.

He could feel the itch starting again.  _Things had seemed so simple in the beginning. Get the supplies. Bring them to Nikolai…_

_…only things were a bit more complicated than that. More so when Nikolai was…_

_Well._

_Not Nikolai._

_Something he'd never told his wife about, the company he used to keep. The monster he used to follow. But they'd never understand, would they?_

Two centuries since the lycans started dealing in exiles…and it was still early days when he first showed on their doorstep. The paperwork not nearly so rigid…and the port-master…the woman who'd taught him his trade strong enough to look past the way he lied about his fingers.

 _Course she'd known_ …

But she was kindness itself, the lycan port-master. A bit of a task-master, but fair. Showing him the ropes so he could take over for when exiles needed quarter. It was her idea _…_ easier for bloods to trust if it was a vampire, him who welcomed them. _For decades, he worked alongside his Gwen. Until one night, she shifted a pair of dice across the table at him._

_Ivory dice._

_Best night of his life,_ he realised. Trying to remember what it felt like to hold his Gwen.  _And now he'd never see her again. Sure as the north, he'd never see his Gwen._  His life ruined. His feet halfway in the grave…

…and the rest of him  _still_  keeping his eyes front, trying not to see the bleeding corpse slumped against the wall behind him. Forty-five minutes he'd been lying there. Over sixty tunnels they could be hiding down, and of all the places in the world,  _this_  was where he ended up _._

Grace was still on her knees, scrubbing the stones around him with soap and water, sniffing every few moments as she scoured away his trail. They'd moved him twice already.  _Even in her grief, the woman knew how to clean. The ability to make a body disappear something that scullery maids seemed to know a great deal about._ The two of them still trying to buy themselves time while Nikolai talked to himself.

She had quieted down some—enough to help him carry her scent-pots along the tunnels, the Blackmark haze that covered their tracks—but there was no solace for the haunted look in her eyes.  _He used to think the Blackmarks were dangerous…but no, they were small, petty creatures beside Nikolai._ Their teeth now decorating his furnace. The smell making him want to retch.

He turned, instinctively veering for the side of the room less occupied. Skirting the corners, his shoulders hunching down as he peered over his shoulder. The face seeming to follow him every which way he turned.

 _Like somehow the man was watching him even in his sleep,_ he thought with a nervous laugh, tallying up the damage. _More bruises that he could count. A festering knee, the smell of something rancid coming from the wound in his stomach._ Stranger still, the man wore old clothes, a filthy workman's coat covering a gentleman's shirt stained with all manner of sewage rot. His beard was unkempt, his hair uncut.

 _Three times he'd seen Aleksey Itzhak_. First when his Gwen vouched for their union, second, a century later when they made him port-master over Tilbury exile's quarter…

…and today.

_An odd man, Aleksey Itzhak._

_He would cross borders. Leave exiles at the edge of a new world and then vanish. Never more than three in a decade…but still something he always wondered on. The question of why a rich merchant with more gold on his hands than blood would still be saving exiles when so many others had given up the cause…_

_…and why was he here,_ he thought frantically, trying to scrub the sweat off his brow _. It was not supposed to happen this way. Even with the supplies, they were not ready for a lycan incursion. The crates still loaded with dynamite, but the original plan shot to hell now that the lycans had found them._

 _And how was that even an answer_ , he wondered all of a sudden, handkerchief pressed to his forehead.  _How was blowing themselves to hell supposed to get them out to the docks?_

He heard a throat wheeze from behind. Could have been his own throat for all he knew.

_Or Grace._

Likely regretting her choice of friends now.  _Blood, he didn't want to think on that…_

 _…_ but he could  _still_  see them. The two girls on their backs, petrified on the carpet, staring into the eyes of Nikolai as he tried to choose which one he was going to kill.  _Red or white,_ he asked them _._ In the end, it was Grace who made the decision for him. Her own fault for panicking…trying to grab her little one and make a break for it.  _All_  she needed to do was wait until they reached the fireplace, but no…

…she had to run.

She pressed him…and now she was tied to him as surely as the rest of them. Nikolai could always tell the ones who feared his match.  _The ones who'd do anything to save their own skin._

They'd all been there.  _Even the old crone_. But at least the two of them knew what they were up against. Grace and her Blackmarks…well, that was like rats beside a viper. Small and persistent, building up their finances on dirty money, pilfering silver without the hoard tapping into their resources.  _No taxes. No statements to worry about._   _Reckon they thought Nikolai was an easy target. Willing to kill, easy to control._ The lot of them up to their noses in the business of swindling exiles before they left for the Americas.

'Course he'd known they were there…but as long as they left him and his wife alone, it was none of his business. Last he'd heard, it weren't even the Hoard who owned the distillery no more. Just some Lycan-Irish conglomerate backing the purist cause. Made him wonder where they got the scent-cover from…

…but that was lycan politics for you. Always a backer available if you cried hard and long enough…and for Grace, they came out in droves.  _Finnegan the martyr. Finnegan and his daughter who'd been cheated out of her inheritance_. People whose hands twitched at any mention of exiles living within the Hoard.

 _Things he ought to have told his Gwen_. His frantic thoughts, the nightmare he was living, suddenly interrupted by the smell of burning flesh.  _The damage already half done by the time he turned around._

Nikolai was crouching over Itzhak, his tongue between his teeth as he worked, running the tip of a silver steak knife along the man's forearm.  _It was like watching a child draw._ Up and down and around, scratching this way and that. The knife soon turned sideways, scraping and sawing until the skin came off like a fish being flayed with a dull knife. It was a sticky mess, it was.

He held it up.

_A trophy._

"Business," he said decisively. The eye wild as he wiped his hands on the man's shirt. "If we cannot run…then we will do  _business_  with the lycan dogs of this city, Ivan."

_Oh blood._

_Ivan._

Ewan closed his eyes.  _He didn't want to be Ivan. He wanted to be Ewan…_

But there was no choice now. His past…his fate as the crone would say had caught up with him. Grudgingly, he stepped forward, trying not to think on how much dynamite he'd collected over the past four months. Trying not to quake as Nikolai gave him instructions. Trying to forget the exiles who slumbered above their heads as he reached down for a crowbar, opening one of the crates by the wall with a creak.

_He'd hoped it would not come to this._

But then hope was never a useful thing when forty-eight sticks of dynamite were concerned.

o…o…o

Fifteen minutes later, a message was found a quarter of a mile down an eastern tunnel close to the Tilbury docks. It had been nailed to a wooden board and chucked into the sewage line to float downstream to the heavily-guarded entrance. Like the eye of Hannah Jacobsen, it was transported directly to the head of the incursion.

Raze was briefing his men when he received the news. The message quickly laid out on the table. Bleeding onto the reports until Arlington had the presence of mind to stretch the thing out. Eyes widening as they read the text burnt into what could only be lycan flesh. The skin, the scent of blood and sweat, as familiar to him as his own fur. In that moment, everything changed.

 _Raze,_ it said. _1 hour. Crossroads. Come alone._

The hour passed swiftly and Raze soon found himself lurking in the eastern section of the Tilbury tunnels, stepping over the putrid bones of rats and birds on his foray to the meeting place. His face was covered by a thick cloth, but the air was still damaging to his nose. Remnants of the noxious cloud of yellow gas wafting around his head, hinting at a thousand and one scents that could only be twenty for all he knew.

His path showing evidence of the previous lycan incursion. Chalk indicating the initial direction of the scent…the line starting to skew as the scent-mask threw them off course. It was a dangerous weapon…and as yet, they still had no base to examine. His eyes scanning the stones, even now searching for a smouldering end, some clue that he could bring back to Singe.  _Whoever was burning the source was careful to take their tools with them._

_Nothing else then but to wait._

So with the cross-roads in sight, Raze crouched with his back to the exit, waiting for Grace Marsden to show her face. His decision to come alone provoked in part by the shotgun in his hand. The knowledge that he was not battling a laudanum withdrawal, he could Change at the drop of a hat, and he could tear through this creature's throat before she had time to blink. In the end, it was not Grace who came to negotiate.

It was Kolya.

His hackles rising, but his control in place for he had come to deal…and though he would rather to bury his fist in the face of this blood, he needed to keep his wits about him.

He rose from his haunches, pointing the shotgun at Kolya. "Terms."

The vampire lingered in the shadows. Looking over his shoulder and then creeping forward to peer over and round his back. Searching for some sign that he was not alone. The shadows showing a rusty metal canister without a cap, an unlit match, and a winsome face that had been scarred brutally in the last few hours. "You have followed my instructions?"

Rather than repeat himself, Raze lifted the shotgun a measure higher.  _He hoped it was Lucian who took the eye._

The vampire twitched…and then splashed the open canister over the ground beneath their feet. The walls.  _Paraffin oil by the smell._  He put down his canister and pulled a tattered map from his coat.  _The same one Lucian had taken from the Registry_. "Transport to the eastern docks for myself and three companions. In exchange, we will give you the one called Itzhak."

"Alive?"

"Of course."

Hard to deal without a handle on his opponent's scent. There was an air of unpredictability about him. Something he was not entire unfamiliar with. "I need proof."

"You have the skin."

Raze shrugged. "He could be dead by now."

Kolya turned his palms upwards, the map and the match raised up. "You must trust me."

He could almost hear Lucian's voice in his head.  _That settles it._

"No deal." Raze turned and began to walk away, his back stiff despite the years Lucian had spent preparing him for this moment.  _The choice made for him as surely as if he'd made it himself._ His steps taking him as far as the end of the tunnel, almost a dozen yards, before he receive a second offer.

The vampire called wildly after him. "If we are not on a ship by sundown, I will burn him," he warned.

_A counterpoint to the balance that Lucian instilled into his soldiers. One that he could use._

With a glower on his face, Raze glanced over his shoulder. "You are trapped," he said softly, forcing the other man to listen carefully to his every word. "…and when the sun sets, I will burn you alive and scatter your ashes across the eastern pier."

The vampire turned a violent shade of purple in the dark. His coat shifting aside to reveal dynamite. "Do not  _think_  to threaten me, dog…I know what lies above these tunnels."

"Actions speak louder than words," he observed dryly.  _He might be the subordinate of Lucian, but he was nothing if not clay moulded in the form of his leader._

As expected, there was a splutter of frustration. "You would sacrifice Exile's Quarter out of pride."

"Necessity." Raze turned his shotgun back towards the dark. "You have an hour to prove Itzhak is alive. In one hour, I will come back to this cross-roads. You will bring Itzhak. You will show me he is alive with no further harm to his person…and  _then_  we will deal."

"He cannot walk."

"Then carry him."

He could hear the grinding of teeth. Kolya held up his match, a wild light showing in his eye. "The terms are  _not_  good. In one hour, I will send you another piece of his skin. Every hour…" There was spittle flying from his teeth. "…you will get another message until you agree to my terms."

Raze did not lower his shotgun. "One hour. Alive…and unharmed," he countered.

Kolya hissed. His face transforming as he did. The eye starting to darken like a milky-white egg sinking into a pit of black tar. The change happening so swiftly that it was black before he turned away. Sweeping back towards the tunnel, the match held high as he walked.  _Even if he did agree to their terms, there was nothing to say he would not blow it._

Raze already on his way, checking his time-piece as he stormed back to the garrison.  _Ten after twelve. The sun would not set for another seven hours._ Every second of their conversation giving him another piece of the puzzle. _Kolya was off his head. Exile's Quarter had to be evacuated…_

_…and Lucian was buying them time with his skin._

_Seven pieces of skin._

_Seven hours until sunset._


	59. Our Lady of Blood

**Chapter LIX: Our Lady of Blood**

_The Tilbury Underground_

_Twenty minutes later._

Lucian woke to the sound of water dripping above his head. Muted pain filling every corner of his wretched skull. Broken bones, shattered joints. _Not the end of his shattered existence then._ Instead a dull sense that he ought to be doing something. That he ought to be moving _._ His consciousness starting to dip and sway before gaining momentum…

…and then rising up with a roar of pain. His eyes wide and unseeing. Like the dead pulling itself from an unholy grave, wary of nothing but hunger and pain. Straining, blinking against the light, trying to see between the shadows. The ground absent beneath his feet. The length of his arms strung up to the ceiling, each wrist tied with thick rope, the strands smelling of faint but undeniable wolfsbane. Poisonous enough that most would prefer bondage to the turmoil of biting their way to freedom.

His first instinct to bite. Draw back his teeth. Tear through the veins of a wrist, a hand, a throat. His hunger suddenly quelled as he recognised a second, more obvious scent. One he'd nearly forgotten for all the years he'd spent hiding it. Already sensing what was wrong, that stiffness to his movements, the numbness of his forearm driven by pain and loss of blood. _It was not just water dripping above his head_ , he realised. _No this scent was fresher than that._

_Pristine, in fact._

With an echoing growl, he snapped forward, raging against his wound, his nails grasping towards the rope. The last traces of his adrenaline stamped out by the butt of a knife crashing down upon his temple, like a bell ringing them into supper, its sound accompanied by a round of silver pressing into his back. Sizzling, driving weakness through his joints again.

He fought back a scream _._

_Counting…_

His heart beating frantically against the burn, forcing himself to think on the number of adversaries. _One striking him with the knife. A second catching him from behind._ Eyes darting left…right, cracking his neck beyond his shoulder, yet seeing no one. _Too much light._

Without warning, he felt the same knife forcing his jaw back. A dreadful stench pressed into his windpipe. _A pitiful beast squealing in fear, petrified not only by the creature who held its tail, but the beast whose dignity it was meant to diminish._ He lunged before they could retract the insult, a mixture of rancid sinew and fur suddenly grasped between his teeth before any of them could blink. The blood putrid to the taste, enough to make his throat recoil before they wrenched it away.

 _Smells._ He could smell blood in every corner of the room, strong enough to pierce the scent of ash clouding his senses. _He knew the smell of vampire blood._ Just as surely as he knew the walls were stained with the blood of his own people. _More than a dozen scents. Fresh. The smell of burnt flesh and urine telling him they had all died in fear._

The smells making him wonder if he was asleep. His immediate memories seeming strange and impossible…a dream that he was starting to doubt. Acid crippling his gut, his last meal starting to fester in his veins, calling up a second…deeper…memory, faster than a blood skittering up a wall. _Eyes burnt out of their…_ He cringed suddenly, his wrists jerking on the rope. Desperately trying to shut it out again. _Emptiness. He was emptiness…_

_…he was a void._

_Alive. Here. Now._ He was breathing faster. Shorter, desperate, the wound in his chest starting to sear. Every ounce of pain hinting at his present situation. _Not just broken ribs. Punctured lung._ It meant the stab-wound was still open, healed enough to keep him alive, but the burns still seething on the inside. _No more than an hour since the stabbing._

 _He could do this_ , he thought. Blinking furiously. _He was awake._ He could smell. He could feel. _Again,_ he thought. _Go over it again._ The air giving him blood and ash…but no scent of alcohol. _No fragrant whiff of the essential oils nor the heady smell of yeast._

_What else…_

_Heat._

The heat of a raging furnace at his back, its existence in the room giving him a possible means of narrowing his location. A single point of heat. _A distillery house usually had several._ His last location had been close to the docks, but they were within range of the abandoned brewery. The docks made sense for someone escaping, while the brewery was a logistical nightmare. Abandoned by mortals, it was, by that virtue, _heavily_ used by lycans. Both areas situated directly above exile's quarter, hence the particular tension that tended to rise up between the upper-class industry owners and the lower-class exiles that they despised.

He started again.

Water could signify the docks, but the heat indicated a smoke stack. The brewery. But if they were _in_ the abandoned brewery, he'd expect it to be guarded. The whole _point_ of something being abandoned was so they could use the damned thing. _So where the fuck were they holding him?_

He squinted at the ceiling again, focusing on the lightest point above his head. It was getting better. The light of each reflection finally starting to recede. _Metal._ He could see the metals in the room. _The hook above his head. But no copper in the ceiling._ This place was older than a distillery house. _Older than the copper piping that was notably absent, older than the cylindrical vessels that so often formed the modern setting of a distillery house._ Older because they were _not_ in a distillery house at all…

_…they were beneath one._

_Far beneath the ground._ He was drinking it in. _Sight._ His eyes slowly adjusting to the light. The rope was attached to a winch on his right, the hook welded into an iron beam above his head. At least forty feet below the surface, the walls were made of brick and mortar that crumbled in places. They were on a level _below_ the abandoned brewery. _Enough hooks in the ceiling for him to know an old slaughter room when he saw it._ A stained butcher's table in the centre…

…and Reinette laid out like a mummified corpse upon her bed. Possibly the first time he'd seen her peaceful without a bottle of blood-alcohol to help. Rope binding her to the table, and a dress—not one of hers he was mildly offended to realise that he knew—because why the hell would he know that—draped over the sides. Red staining every inch of her dress, the grooves and the floor stained with the same blood. Her face tilted back as though she'd only just fallen asleep, her hair silvery-white against the bleeding base of her skull.

On the one hand, his hackles were rising. On the other, he felt like carousing. Throwing his fist in the air, decapitating _everyone_ in the room, dragging Raze back here by the jacket, sitting the man down in a pool of blood, telling him to close his eyes and then pointing vigorously at the table because—guess the fuck what, Raze…

_She…was…alive._

She was _not_ a pillar of ash, and the second Raze found out, _someone_ in their blood-forsaken den would have to admit that he'd been wrong. It was a phenomenal feeling. One which ended up being rather wistful given the mood he was in. _Blood, he wished Raze was here._ The triumph of being right failing to better every aspect of his day for once.

On his left...

...a man by the name of Ewan Saunders. The vampire of Tilbury. One of the first names on the census of communal living with his wife, Gwen. Gruff and twitchy, he kept his eyes fixed to the floor, nervously wiping his hands on his shirt. Shame in his scent. A crow-bar clutched close to his chest as though he was afraid of dropping it. Possibly because he lacked all ten of his fingers. It could also be the six crates of dynamite beside him…one of them open.

The woman on his right needed no introduction. Paunchy and pale like too much pluck shoved in a sheep's bladder. Scars on her face. Eyes red for the ones who had been taken from her. The smell of sorrow, hatred…the cries of a rabid animal coating her skin. The infamous Grace Marsden whose face, he realised in that moment, was more familiar than he'd have wagered ten minutes ago. _She'd asked a question at the last Gathering of the People in the London den. Over five months ago in the first week of Reinette's arrival. 'Will there be more of her kind entering the den…'_

She had the look of a ring-leader. Her hand gripping the winch like she wanted to hang him…but her eyes kept glancing fearfully to the centre of the room. _Fearfully._ Both Grace and the vampire, Ewan, were shadowed by the presence of a third.

 _Nikolai Proshkov…fucking…Andreev_.

_Kolya._

The vampire stood with his profile to the room, the light of the furnace casting an unnatural glow upon his skin. His appearance unchanged from this angle. Dark and luminous, humming to himself, looming over Reinette like a supplicant kneeling before his alter. His expression rapt with an undisguised adoration as though nothing could tear his gaze away.

_Blood, what was that scent..._

Even with his lungs strung up from the ceiling, he'd almost forgotten how to breathe out, forcing himself to sniff…sniff…sniff…viciously trying to scent the man out. _Odd that he could still smell gratitude. Wonder. An intense need to please all those around him._ A change occurring in the scent, the underlying whiff of mania suddenly peeling back, as though a dam had burst free. Every sniff making him acutely aware that he was facing a three-headed dog. Murder coating the man's skin like a malaise hanging over a cesspit.

The vampire turned to look him in the face. Where once there had been a seamless profile, there was now a horrific scar healing across his face. His eye missing, the bleeding mess of his iris subtly weaving itself like a spider within a socket.

"Mr. Itzhak," he said with a warm smile. "I wish to thank you for the concern you have taken for my family." His voice was unchanged. Winsome, the Russian polite in its inflection. He touched the shoulder of Reinette. "For a half year, you are keeping my lady of blood from harm, and in exchange…" He indicated the blood-spattered room with a wide sweep of the arm. "…as agreed, I am hurting those who aim to hurt you…" The list was intoned as though it were a lecture of no consequence. "…whores, Blackmarks, traitors…they are no more."

It took him a moment to register. His ears starting to burn as he began to process _…_ very slowly…the scene in front of him. _The hand on Reinette's shoulder. The wording. Not just lady, but...lady…of blood. Even going so far as to use Latin in place of the Russian._ A term that he'd not heard for a good four centuries. One that in many ways could only be described as vomit-inducing if it meant what he thought it meant. Needless to say, he was not about to waste perfectly good bile until the man was standing closer.

"What do you want, Andreev?"

He was aiming for curt, but his voice came out in a tired rasp _. Worthy of celebrating given that his lungs were only a half litre away from collapsing._

The vampire shrugged as though it were obvious. "Business."

"What _kind_ of business?"

"Transport."

He cut in. "Where?"

"The eastern dock." It was the direct manner of speech that seemed to plague every one of the Andreevs. "I wish for safe passage to my ship for both myself, my lady, and our two companions. You, Mr. Itzhak will arrange this for us." His teeth clicked on the last syllable.

Two incisors and a neck said he knew the name of the ship waiting at the eastern docks. "And what if I say no?"

"You will not."

He felt a twinge in the corner of his mouth. "Is that because you hear _yes_ when people say _no_?"

The eye fixed on him.

Each man refusing to lower his gaze until Kolya made a tutting sound. His hand still resting on Reinette, gently tracing the outline of her cheek before he turned towards the furnace. Speaking to the flames with the grace of one accustomed to looking down on things. "Mr. Itzhak, every hour, I am going to give you a chance to accept my terms after your associate refuses."

 _They were studying each other_ , he realised. Testing the edges, seeing how far the other would go. "You've spoken to Raze?"

Kolya swivelled. "I sent him a message." The swivel was followed by a curious tapping on the chin. "I indicated that I would blow up Exile's Quarter if he did not comply with my request. He told me that I should do as I wished."

"Did he, now?'

He was buying time before the inevitable. The words narrowing the field. Close to the docks. _At least forty feet below the surface._ Exile's quarter above. Smoke from the furnace leading to one of the brewery smoke stacks. _The question was…how did they get here…which tunnel did they take…_

"I warned him that I would also skin you alive over the next seven hours." Kolya's nails began to grow, his hands gracefully perching each nail against one another. "He still has yet to accept my offer."

"Perhaps you need to taunt him," he suggested idly. Perfectly content to continue on a subject that was so near and dear to his heart. "See... I once threatened to spend an entire decade using nothing but my own waste to write messages to Raze, and to this day, he writes 'faithfully yours' at the end of our correspondence."

"He is faithful to human excrement?"

"That is one way of describing me, yes," he said, following the pipes along the ceiling, still searching for an exit. "But I rather think he just adores dealing with the psychotic. Don't you?"

The nails tapped against the chin...and then Kolya sighed, turning away. "Mr. Itzhak, please do not make this difficult. We have seven hours until sunset…and my lady and I, we _cannot_ linger in these tunnels." Seeming quite used to his own torture room, he indicated the second table by the wall, the stained and rusty knives of a butcher. "…and of course, I have no wish to _hurt_ an esteemed patron. You must understand this."

"Thing is, Andreev…" Realising there was no way out, he let his gaze drop, choosing a brick on the opposite wall. A single point of reference, focusing on that brick. Steeling himself for the long night. "…I am _still_ not getting it."

The maggot-eye twitched. "I would be pleased if you could call me Kolya."

"Or what?"

"It is a mere courtesy."

He felt the ghost of a smile lighting his face.

"I'd _really_ rather not."

o...o...o

_Two minutes later._

His skull slammed into the wall behind with a painful, bone-crunching thud. The rope creaking from above and Kolya leaning against his head, clutching his temples as though he wanted to squeeze them into dust. "You are walking on thin ice, Mr. Itzhak…" His voice was soft. His eye turning black. "…I can tell you now…it will be painful if you do not help us."

He could feel the nails digging into his skull now. The tip of an unseen blade starting to draw along his cheek. Enough to suspect that (a) this third scent, even stronger than the second one he had smelled, was the worst of the three, and (b) it was going to be a long night. The urge to spew his guts rising up even as he forced a laugh through. "What happens if I keep missing the point?"

"Then I will ask you again…and again, Mr. Itzhak." The knife moved lower. Like a whore with too much vigour, the blade teasing the flesh of his shattered kneecap. "Safe passage to the eastern pier for myself and my companions. You _will_ give us this."

His teeth drew back in a vicious grin. "How _much_ do you want to wager?"

_It was the perfect opportunity._

He spat.

 _A gob of blood-riddled spit trailing down the vampire's cheek. Almost worth what happened next._ Kolya strained forward. The scent of his hatred polluting the air between them. And the world, the hell he was about to experience, suddenly grinding to a halt. His mind, the memories that made up his person, even in that moment, trying to analyse the breadth of his agony.

Now granted…

He _knew_ it was going to be bad. _But somehow the years had dulled the memory._ Years that made him almost forget how much alcohol he'd drunk the last time. That he'd had a bone to grind between his teeth. That they'd spent an hour trying to numb his shoulder before Raze started cutting…

…and at the time, it made sense.

 _Notably, it did fuck all for the pain._ But he remembered it as being a grander moment than this. It had been _his_ choice. His decision to cut a piece of his flesh off, to remove that symbol of enslavement from his shoulder. _Whereas now, he was not so sure about his choices._

For example, it took about twenty seconds before he screamed. _Possibly_. Thirty before he vomited. _Again._ Eighty before a slice of skin the size of a small rabbit was peeled from the right side of his back, the agony making him twitch as the rope suddenly snapped, depositing him heavily on the stone floor.

It would have been the perfect moment for an impromptu Change. He could have decapitated someone. Borrowed some skin so he could fix up his back. Instead he was slipping in his own blood. Shivering as the cold hit him. _It felt like winter…and it hurt. Everything hurt. Every ounce of his skin…his knee…his…_ He folded over on his stomach, passing out. Thanking the bloods that the room was going dark. That Raze had not been here to see him scream.

_Definitely not like last time._

o…o…o

As soon as the lycan passed out, Ewan dropped his crowbar with a yelp. Grace, on the other hand, scuttled forward and began to sniff the air around the man. Staring up at the rope. Prodding him in the shoulder. And then looking fearfully to Kolya…and then Ewan…

…the same thought on all their minds.

_Rope._

"We can't stay here," said Ewan. He was on the verge of tearing his shirt, twisting it with his palms. _They weren't prepared for this. A child, yes…but not a full-grown lycan._ There was a brief moment when he worried over whose voice would answer.

 _Hrafn. Nikolai…or Kolya_. The eye finally turning black, letting them know who spoke. "Grace." Beside her in an instant, he wrenched her up by the collar. "…you _know_ these tunnels."

She whimpered.

Nikolai's claws tightened around her neck. Instantly, Ewan took a step back, picking up the crowbar. He knew how these things went. _Any second now, her neck could be a spray of red across his face_ , he knew. _That was how it always started._

_A whimper._

"Ol' Butcher's block!" The words came out in a squeak. Her eye were bulging. The woman cowering on the floor as soon as she was dropped, crawling back on her knees like a crab. "Two levels down. Sealed with the rest of the tunnels."

"Cages?"

She nodded fast. "Shackles in every one, but no silver. Used to kill bloods there. My father an' his men…'fore he died, they sealed it."

Nikolai had his eye on the dynamite, the safety fuses in the crates. He pulled the map from his coat, laying it out on the table _._ "Still beneath exile's quarter?"

Grace ducked her head once. A loyal dog, her eyes wild, straying over the line of sanity. _Nothing like your own heart beating to remind you of what was important._

Ewan had seen it all before. It was the last croak before someone became a lackey. All of them just handholds on a crumbling wall, and Nikolai the only one climbing to the top. He looked behind him at the butcher's table. _Reckoned every one o' them knew the first time they caved._

_Even the crone._

The eye twitched. Scanning the map. "Good," he said. "It is good, my friends. We move him…quickly now."

Ten minutes later, Nikolai had his shoulder against the brick, their eyes on the ceiling as they pressed their way through an old wall. Dust in their faces. The smell of stale air greeting them as they ventured deeper into the underground.

Ewan got stuck carrying Itzhak. They'd wrapped him in oilcloth, the grease and dirt starting to meld with the bleeding back. _Like the first wound, it was not healing. But wounded or not, he'd still known lycans to Change on a dime. Chains was what they needed…chains and silver._ Grace trailing behind them both with her bucket, scrubbing the stones every time a drop of blood fell. _Scrub the blood, burn the scent,_ she muttered under her breath _._

Nikolai hissing at them to move faster. All he needed was a silver-whip and they'd be three centuries younger. Time still slipping faster than they'd planned. _Too many things to do…and too few of them. Break through a wall, move a lycan, and scour a trail._ In the end, even the monster had to help. His tongue gripped between his teeth as he began to move each crate of dynamite to the new location.

 _Ten minutes,_ they all thought. _Just ten minutes…and they'd be back for her._ The door shut on the furnace and the crone left on the table. Barely a hop, skip and a croak between the furnace and old butcher's block _. And blood knew she wasn't going anywhere._

_Least not with a two-inch hole in her head._


	60. Fuel for Matches

**Chapter LX: Fuel for Matches**

_Meanwhile…_

In her dream, Reinette was crawling through a tomb, a dreadful forgotten tomb filled with a wave of screeching rats, all of them creeping up her back, fleeing a great beast lurking behind them.  _Hrafn, aid her...for there was blood on her hands. Blood streaming onto the stones like water._

She could not breathe, her neck craning against some unseen force, her teeth fighting for purchase.  _She could not possess it. She could not flee it._  An iron hand forcing her to look up from the stones, wrenching the harness on her back. Pulling and scratching her eyes until she could no longer see what the darkness fled.  _Not the sun...nor the moon._

_The eye of a demon._

_Black._

She woke with a hoarse cry, trying to sit up.  _But there was no harness. No rats._ Instead, a thick rope holding her down. The all-to-real sensation of a harness jerking painfully at her neck.  _Panic rising, fear that it was not a dream._

_What had he done to her…_

Desperate as the night of her awakening, she struggled, trying to feel what had changed, if anything. Her hair white in the corner of her eyes. Her hands still wrinkled. Her skin sweating beneath the light of a thousand torches, while the fabric beneath her head itched like lice.  _It felt like her head was on fire._ She strained against the rope and then lay back again. The pain in her head getting worse beneath the heat. Pounding and swelling as though she'd been sucked into a furnace.

 _Focus_ , she thought.  _Escape first. Youth did not matter…_

_…only escape._

She remembered the layout of the room. The butcher's table upon which she lay, the fire gaping at the far end of the right wall, but not all as precisely as it had been. There was a torn rope swinging from a hook in the ceiling, a smear of blood leading to the door.  _Sabine,_ she thought.  _Blood, let them not have caught her._ Her attention wanting to steer towards the door, but her fears lingering on the fire. Petrified that she would see a child's corpse burning among the ashes.

It had a cavernous aura. If she squinted, she could see flames licking the small fragments of bone that would not burn. The scent of acrid smoke melding with burning flesh. Old blood streaked across its stones as though many a throat had been slashed before it. _The same blood soaked through the back of her dress. Too much blood to be her own…_ The memory of Sabine tearing down the corridor making her heart start to beat faster.

She had to get out. She had to move before he came back. She craned her neck beneath the rope that held her down, searching for something sharp: a knife, a piece of glass, anything with which to free herself. Everything out of reach, save for a box of nails on the table. Her eyes now seeking the shadows, the dark, the hole through which the monster had dragged her.  _Was he still in the room,_ she wondered _. Waiting for her in one of the corners._

The battered wooden door taunting her with hope. The sight of scratches on its surface, the thought coming out of nowhere: that she could be hopeful at the scratchings of a lycan. Even so, the scratchings were timeless. Impossible to discern how old they were, making her wonder if she was lying to herself.  _Had years passed since her kidnapping…Had she fallen into another sleep… Had another decade of her life vanished like a half-remembered dream?_

Adrenaline, born of fear, making her eyes Change, making her head pound even louder. Her mind tearing forward into the unknown. Conscious that there was a wound in her skull trying to heal.  _Conscious that perhaps it was not the blood of others soaked through the back of her dress, but her own life force bleeding out._

 _Perhaps she was dead,_ she thought. Terrified and listening to the silence, she found herself praying to it. Begging in her heart that she would not hear the voices of her past. Her mother, her father, her sisters and the brother who fell beneath the ice _. If she heard their voices, it meant they were damned alongside her._   _That somehow, she had sucked their souls away with her choices._

 _Perhaps it was the wound in her head._  Her eyes rolling back as she began to see beyond the walls. Not a vision of her future, but a memory of her past rising up like smoke before an altar. If not for the table and the rope, she would have been swaying. Rising. Seeing.  _A black eye staring into her soul._

_Hrafn._

_His name was Hrafn._

_Branding his name into her skin so that all would know her for his creature. So that all could see that she was bound to him. His promise growing darker as the years passed. Dark until the snows turned black beneath his sight._

_Until he locked her into a cage…and hung a silver key upon the stones of a great hall. Its surface now tarnished and old for the many times it had been turned in its lock._ Sweat coated her skin. The brand on her side starting to seethe with pain. Yet it was not the brand from which she fled.  _It was something happening beyond the door…_

_…something dark that she did not want to see._

Eyes open. Thought and motion resembling the flight of birds.  _She needed to get out._ Mindless, she grappled with the rope at her wrist. Straining to reach the binding. Believing that she could stop the memory by scratching through it _. She did not want to remember._ Adrenaline pumping faster into her veins, making her heart beat faster than a war-drum _._ Her nails curled into her wrist, scratching and tearing at the ropes until they were slick with blood. Twisting and turning until one of the cords snapped.  _Fleeing before she could remember._ The mind suddenly empty and the door on her memory slamming shut.

_Free._

Slick with sweat, she sat up.

Breath flowed down her lungs again. The freedom unexpected. Even with the heat at her back, she was shivering. Shaking as she unwound her wrist from the table, using her nails to make short work of the remaining cords. The one around her neck turning into a hangman's noose. Stubbornly clinging to her skin until she forced herself to be still. Calm. Untangling its grip before she scraped through the last of it.

A weight still hung from her shoulders. A weariness borne of uncertainty.  _She was not his creature. She was not bound to him. The thought again giving her cause to fear._ Fear as she wrapped her arms around her knees, holding herself together, afraid that she would crack if she gripped too tight. Counting her way to sixty, reaching deep within…

…and then chiding herself.

It was a decision to breathe and find her calm. Releasing her knees, choosing to forget about the door and its key.  _A fleeting memory with no substance,_ she decided. _Like a cold winter's night, every breath fading as quickly as it had formed. So faint she could almost forget it was there._

Resolved now, she pulled herself to the edge of the table.  _Forgetting that her strength was not with her. Her head still pounding._ The dress heavier, the material itchier than she remembered. Her fingers too weak to do more than drag her torso and all that she was wearing over the edge.  _As usual, her escape from anything resembling a horizontal position resulted in a catastrophe._ The edge of her dress catching on some edge or another, drawing the steel table and its box of nails over with a dreadful...

_Crash!_

_o…o…o_

_Two levels down._

They all heard it. A distance crash calling their ears to the surface above, like a waterfall of metal cascading onto stone. Grace was handing him the jailer's keys when she dropped them noisily, leaping back from the oilcloth. Her tiny pupils latching onto the ceiling, as though she half expected the lycan legion to fall through the bricks.

Ewan simply froze with his hand outstretched.  _Lycans were the least of his worries_ , he thought. Looking up with a shiver at the circular grate in the ceiling, the wheel still visible from his vantage point. True, it had been blocked off, the hole no doubt covered by some sewage grate or manhole in the world above; but he could tell what the place used to be.

 _Old Butcher's block_ , Grace had called it. But there were no slaughter hooks.  _No sign of the cattle pens and butcher's tables that could be found two levels above._ He'd bet his thumbs this used to be an execution hall. Gravestones beneath his feet. The level deep enough to harken back a few centuries. Making him wonder how many ghosts still lingered in the space.

Out of the three of them, the only one to worry on was Nikolai. The vampire had been busy knocking holes in the wall, planting sticks of dynamite every four feet or so, wasting no time in the ten minutes since they'd brought the last load. Only now, the railroad spike in his right hand was hovering dangerously over a blasting cap. Fuses coiled around him like snakes, the lines going down the aisle and up the staircase. Either Nikolai would smash the spike into the dynamite, blasting them all to hell or…

"Restrain him," he shouted. The eye had turned black. The rest of the monster sprinting up the staircase. Pebbles falling from the level above, making Ewan wonder how sturdy the ceiling was. Whether it was his lot to end up with his throat torn out or his neck broken by falling rocks.

 _Either way, dead is dead,_ he thought, dragging Itzhak the rest of the way to the pillar. The ceiling blocked off with stone, but the pillar still usable. Fourteen feet tall with wooden edges and steel rings on all four corners. Hills of ash gathering at its base. Ash from fifty years ago, more like as not.

Grace licked her lips, retrieving the keys and handing them over with a glance over her shoulder. Throwing them was more like it. Her breath strained like a pig being led out to slaughter. Bowing and scraping out of fear, her skin the most precious thing she owned now.  _That was always the way. The monster up front while his lackeys scuttled around, trying to stab each other, while keeping themselves alive for another hour._

_Or seven if he was lucky._

Eager to be done, he hoisted Itzhak up by the armpits, leaving the oil-cloth at the base of the pillar. His palms working the manacles around each wrist, running the chain through the ring at the top and pulling with all his might. Stringing the man up like a rack of lamb with his legs folded beneath. A hook by the wall serving as a hitch, but the chain still too long to raise him off the ground. The key turned twice in the manacles, and the chain fixed twice at the wall, before he stepped back to think.  _Think quickly. Think before they ran out of options_. His neck hairs tingling as Grace crept up beside him.

She was making a whining sound. Already smelling the worst before he could see it, her neck hunched as though she wanted—in her soul—wanted to cow before the pillar. He'd seen it before.  _The pack system, the ranking._ Something about the scent of this battered, bleeding creature drew her forward. The woman prodding the man's shoulder, sniffing around his head, testing the chains until she knew they were tight.

 _A right pair they were._  Tightening chains, locking up manacles, when they both knew, sooner or later, the chains would not hold. Even with pieces of skin missing and rot settling in his knee, no amount of poking and prodding would shave any years off.  _The man was a full grown lycan, at least two centuries old…_ That meant they had an hour…maybe two if they were lucky.

It turned out to be less than that.

Ewan heard a breath.

A spasm from the man's throat, his lungs grasping for air. _It was the only warning he needed. He'd lost enough fingers in this life._  Dropping the chain, he shifted backwards, quickly enough to avoid the aftermath. Enough to avoid the jaws which had moving so suddenly, so viciously to turn on the closest among them. A spray of red streaked across the ground.

Grace had stepped too close. She was bawling in pain, grasping her hands around her throat, trying to heal her neck before she bled out.  _The skin closing quickly enough._ Shock more than anything driving her movements, the wound less than mortal, but her spite leading her to think fast. The only one to use her head now that the chains had started to creak. Her movements hasty, her breath heaving as she stumbled back to the other end of the hall, leaking blood with every step. Hastily retrieving the leather roll left by the stairwell, the one Nikolai had carried from the old slaughter room.

By the time she came back, by the time they unrolled the silver knives, he may as well have been a cornered beast foaming at the mouth. Teeth snapping, claws slipping on blood, backing as far from them as his manacled wrists would allow. Lunging forward when they least expected it. Tenaciously jerking the rusty chain above his head, trying to wrestle the chain from the pillar.  _There were no words. No pleading. Just the struggle._

The two of them managed to wrap the chain around the pillar and his throat, keeping their flesh well away from his teeth. Reminding themselves that the Change had not happened yet. That as long as he was strung up, they had silver on their side...and it would be two of them and one of him. Two of them. One of him. Just needed the right bit of pillar.

The hands splayed just so…

…and a rock.

_o…o…o_

_Two levels up._

A haggard scream pierced the air. Once…and then a second time. _A hoarse, keening sound like an animal with its leg in a trap._ Crouching beneath the table, Reinette bit her lip with a curse and swerved to look behind her at the door. It could have been a man. Or an animal. But whoever…or whatever it was, it could not be far from here…

She rashly snatched one of the nails, trying not to shudder at the foul grime—the remains of some beast or other—coating her fingers. Listening. Praying to the Fates that she might pass unnoticed beneath the wings of the monster who lived in this hole. _Perhaps they had not heard._

And yet how changed her world had become. The memory of waking in the old monastery, of his arms carrying her to the fireplace, seeming like a dream compared to this nightmare. Nothing to do but hope and crawl forward, the heat beneath reminding her of what she feared.  _Pain. The crackle of fire. The one that would burn her if she was not careful._ Creeping under the butcher's table, she kept her eyes away from the smoke.  _The putrid heap of victims who had vanished like smoke from this room...leaving only their teeth in the furnace. The small pieces of ash that would not burn._ Her breath starting to run ragged, causing her to choke on the stench of the dead.  _Even for a vampire, it was too much._

By the time she crossed the room, she was shaking again. Hands slipping on the door knob.  _Too much blood on her hands._ The iron made of sterner stuff than she, managing to slip from her grasp every time she turned it. Slipping...and slipping...until she used her dress. Folding the edge of the dead woman's dress around the knob and gaining a grip.  _Not just on the door, but her courage. Preparing herself to run._

The door opened with a creak, the sound giving her cause to wince. Afraid that the darkness, the shadows, held more than just stones and mortar. She could hear no steps.  _The silence continuing._   _No boots clamping on stone. No glimmer of light beyond the door._ So she squinted left and then right, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Fearful of taking the first step. Her thoughts focused on the floor outside, bolstering her courage, promising herself that all would be well…if she could just step forward.

 _It was not the door that stopped her. Nor the darkness._ Rather, she stumbled back of her own accord. A lifetime of habits giving her enough instinct to avoid the match as soon as it was struck. Like a flare across the sky, it burst into flame, landing at her feet. Fleeting in its beauty, the flame dancing upon the stones before it shrivelled into ash.

_He was here._

She had enough time to steel her torso, shaking, the nail gripped between her thumb and index finger. The attack came from the right. Sweeping across her throat, shoving her back through the open door. Her back colliding with the brick wall, the impact snapping the air from her lungs.

Dust clouding the air around her, she lashed out with the nail. The weapon ripped away before she could slash him across the neck. She was straining to breathe, his weight digging into the bones of her waist.  _The simplest portion of her mind taking over._   _Teeth. Claws._  Her fists beating at the monster, struggling and scratching until they were a mess on the floor.

 _Kolya. Nikolai. Hrafn._ All of them fighting to get a grip and Hrafn prevailing over them all.

"I  _waited_  for you," he said, her jaw tight between his nails and her hair wrenched back by his hand. "For twenty years, I waited on that ship…" The nightmare unfolding with the smell of oil on his fingers. "Biding my time, keeping my promise," he hissed. His breath stunk of bone and sinew, the stench of burnt blood dripping from every word. He held her jaw. "…and for what," he asked. "For what?"

 _He was mad if he thought she was listening. Only flight. Freedom._ She tried to crawl forward to the door. Sobbing. Yelling. Her nails scrabbling for the knob, trying to pull herself away. His hands...his filthy hands holding her down.  _It was the heat of her nightmares. Fire coating her back and melting her skin._  She clawed at his hands, trying to scratch his other eye out before it happened again. Skin crawling with the memory of heat.  _Oil on the ground, the doorway…the fabric of her dress._

He struck her hand away.

"You  _will_  remember me," he said. Reaching not for the silver flask, but for a small bottle tucked in his jacket. Fuel splashed over her dress, the bottle cast aside and his teeth bared against her ear. A match lit and the flame beside her cheek in a flash. So close now that she could see the pores in his skin. The eye filled with a reflection of flame, the madness of his obsession. "…before we leave this place, I want you to  _say_  my name, blood-seer. I want to  _hear_  it on your tongue."

She woke from the fear. Tasting her own blood, feeling the nausea of their struggle.  _A struggle that had caught up with her. The trap closing the moment she stepped aboard that ship._  The match flickered between them, illuminating the eye of this ruined angel whose memories had been sucked by the teeth of a demon.

"Hrafn," she whispered. Her voice like a fading ghost, even now unable to name him in more than the smallest of whispers. Fearing the name on her tongue, yet unable to shy away from it.

 _She wanted to live._  Even now, she wanted to live. Her instincts unable to conjure any recourse in this hellish existence.  _A place where not only vampires wanted her dead, but now lycans as well. She had burned too many bridges._

He blew the match out.

"And what did I promise you, beloved?" Excitement tinged his words. His hands tight around her lips and her throat, smearing the blood across her skin as though he wanted to choke her. "What did I say would be yours when we leave this place?"

"Youth," she croaked.

It was laughable now.  _Youth, he had promised her, and like a fool, she had followed._ Even now, unable to believe what was happening, willing herself to shut her eyes and find herself back in her quarters. If only she could wake. Turn back the hours, change the hand of Fate.  _Blood, let it all have been worth something..._

"For you are mine and I am yours," he said.  _His eye completely black now._ His lungs seeming to inhale the words, breathing them like incense, as though every syllable could carry him to a higher plane. "Say it."

She could see the flask in his inner coat pocket. The silver flask, only a handspan from her reach. Her despair, the desire to preserve all that was her nature, rushing out. The flame flickering once before going out with her breath. "For you are mine, and I am yours."

The words spoken with a shiver, and she cringing away from the claws scraping up her side. Despising herself for weakness. Wanting to cower and flee and rage in the same moment.  _Wishing to blood she could remember what hold she might have had over this demon in a past life…_

"And so we become one," he said, completing a circle, the weight of those words like a chain around her neck, pulling her down beneath the ice. Half of his face turned away, making her see for a moment again what symmetry she once saw in him.  _Causing her to mourn all that he might have been had the dream not ended._

Nikolai Proshkov Andreev with his winsome manners and elegant teeth. _A dead man whose memories had been eaten._

He yanked her up from the stones. Forcing her to walk on stumbling legs through the doorway and into the dark. His stride pulling her through twists and turns until they came upon a circular metal hatch in the side of the tunnel. _Another prison in the labyrinth. The memory of her dream rising like a living nightmare._ The wave of screeching rats, all of them creeping up her back, fleeing a great beast lurking beneath them. Or behind them.

He made her turn the wheel of the hatch, nudging her to go before him into what once had been a dead-end. The floor now covered in bricks and stone, the crumbling remains of a wall that had been smashed recently. The air filled with dust and the pungent smell of a foreign incense. The space formed of the sunken remains of an abbey whose windows had been bricked and walled off.

She stumbled forward, skittering to a halt at its centre. Her heart leaping into her throat as she looked up. A vast stone wheel loomed above her head. Ancient and bricked off, its presence throwing an anachronistic slant on a room that showed signs of the nineteenth century. Broken glass and copper pipes lining the walls. Open crates of dynamite and a half a dozen canisters of fuel. A series of eight grates in the floor and a staircase on the right leading to the depths below.

 _Worse than the interrogation room in Paris. Older. Emptier._ The cold catching in her throat as she glanced over her shoulder. Daring herself to be brave, to hold fast to what little courage a life without memories gave her. "Is this home," she asked softly.

Kolya took her hand, drawing her across the stone floor to the staircase. Beckoning her forward so that she might peer down into the black. The smell of paraffin oil overwhelming. "It is our escape, beloved."

She balked. Her courage fleeing up the walls. Grasping the edges of the staircase, trying to stop the tide.  _She did not want this._  The rest of her thoughts interrupted by a sudden shrieking. A discordant noise, the muffled tones of her own voice beating against the dark.

He threw her over his shoulder, her waist caught between his arms like a worm. Carrying her swiftly down the steps into the lower levels of the sunken abbey. The space below taller than the level above, but her view limited to grave markings. The names and faces of those who had been buried so many centuries ago. Past the eight gridded cells lining the nave. Past the cobwebs and mildew, the stunned faces of his lackeys. She ended up in the second cell, the air knocked out of her and the cell door locked with a vicious twist. Her world reduced to a space of twelve by twelve feet.

From outside her cage, Kolya called out to the lackeys, the ones whose faces she had seen so briefly. The traitorous lycan and the fingerless vampire, the bear whose fingers she did not want to think on. Shoulders cowering, they stood on the far side of the wall, busy hanging a beggar's corpse from a pillar. Orders he gave them, but the words were in English, refusing to make sense in her mind.

The first instruction passed to the lycan woman.  _Grace._  She listened with a slack jaw before scurrying to do his bidding. Two times, she passed before the bars, her neck bleeding and wrapped in a rag torn from the skirt of her dress. Both times she carried a canister of paraffin oil. Her legs moving as fast she dared, carrying both canisters and a box of matches.  _Everything moving so quickly._

The second instruction went to the vampire.  _The bear whose skull had healed, whose finger-ends she had sliced off so many centuries ago._  Like a warrior about to fall on his sword, he tilted his ear to Kolya, but his eye did not move from her cell. Sweat pouring from every orifice as he ducked his head, twice to Kolya before taking a second box of matches from his hand. He fetched a stool from the choir, placing it directly across from her cell where he could watch her.  _All of them armed with dynamite, flames, and matches…_

…and Kolya about to leave.

Again, whispering his intentions, his love for her, his desire to take her back to the north. But there was work for him to do, he said. He needed to fulfill his promise. He touched two fingers to his lips and reached towards the bars, leaving a kiss on the iron.

She was on the bars in an instant, plunging the length of her arm through, grasping for his inner coat. Missing the flask by a margin. Shouting after him. The sound guttural and deep, echoing through the dark, tearing into every insult and slight, every malicious thought ever shrieked from the tongue of a harpy. Retreating…and then pounding her fists on the bars.

Her eyes red…and the world blacker than tar. A feeling of hopelessness descending on her shoulders. She wanted to weep. Tear her gown until she was naked with a noose in her hands. Instead, letting herself slump on the floor, wrapping her fingers around her bleeding skull, wanting to dig her nails into the wound. The abbey, the tomb of her betrayal, growing quiet save for the sound of rats scurrying in the dark, mocking her with their freedom.

It was no surprise to her when it started.  _The guilt._  First in her mind. Her own voice telling her she was a monster. And then Lucian. Judging her.  _Just like in the tunnels._  Her head wanting to turn for she could swear she could hear him in this place. Dry like the pages of a book. Hating her with every fibre of his being.

"You just  _had_  to follow him," she heard him say. Contempt in his tone, albeit reflective in his observations. His voice distant and hollow as one trapped on the opposite side of a chasm. Had her room, the chairs and the fire been present, he would have been drumming his nails on the chair-arm.

The thought filled her with heartache. A painful longing.  _The feeling of loss, that she had had something…even the chance of that something filling her throat with sorrow._ Rather than admit she was going mad, she covered her ears, burying her face against her knees. Wishing she could block out his voice, her dreams, these visions of the future _…_

 _It became worse._ The voice clearer.

Louder.

Such a bitter voice in the dark. His hatred burning her soul with guilt. "—that mentally-deranged…" He was stretching the boundaries of Latin. "…prepubescent…arse-faced…" He'd reached the point of spitting blood. "… _fuck_ …of a vampire."

She sighed. Envying the fingerless bear as he shifted nervously on his stool.  _If only he knew what she could hear._ The madness that even now was taking root in her brain _._  No doubt a punishment from the fates above, the prospect of his voice haunting her throughout eternity.  _His voice and the fate she gave up for the sake of youth, her memories and a name…_

"And here's what gets me, Reinette…"

 _Oh for bloods' sake_ , she thought wearily. The voice staying true to form, harrowing her when she wished for silence. _Why could he not be quiet…why could he not leave her alone to her fate…_

"—what gets me is that you  _knew_  he was coming," he pointed out. Had he been real, he would have been pacing the room by now. His judgment of the situation rising from somewhere deep within his chest. "Yesterday morning, you were  _afraid_  he was coming…" The whisper had become a yell. "…which means you had eight  _fucking_ hours to tell someone…"

" _Quiet!"_

"Make me!" his voice snapped back.

Her eyes shot open.

_English._

Reinette lurched to her feet. Crawling frantically to the bars, peering down the length of nave, beyond the choir.  _Grace had been the one to yell it. Grace who could hear the voice in her head._ She pulled herself along the bars, straining to see through the dust, her eyes still weak from the last Change. Refusing to be still until she found him. Beyond the bear, past the sight of Grace…and settling in horror on the corpse strung up on the execution pillar.

_Lucian._

He was unrecognisable. Fingers broken, his knees bent in subjugation. Dirt and filth coating his skin, leaving his hair tangled and oily, hanging like rags from his head. Like a mangy dog abandoned in the sewers. His face, his back, his torso stained with blood. Slick and shivering, his breath hollow beneath the bruises. "Eight hours, Reinette." He seemed  _fascinated_  by that number. "…eight fucking hours…"

 _All she heard was her name. Her sweet name on his tongue, even though it was impossible._ She was in shock. She had to be seeing things.  _His hands... they had stabbed his hands with silver._ Her mouth refusing to connect with her mind. Hope taking over before she could stop it, the sensation sweeping over her head like soothing water on a burn. "Lyosha…"

Before she could say more, her guard, the bear was before the cage. The stool abandoned, and the view blocked by his profile. His eyes reflected, showing the same fear and desperation she saw when he was guarding Sabine.  _The same bear retreating from a porcupine, frightened by the world around him._

"Leave him be," he warned nervously.

 _His warning like a pebble trying to stem the flow of the tides._  The thought firm in her mind as she shifted onto her knees, ignoring the bear, crawling left and right, desperate to see past him.  _It was too late to stop her, the cage too wide and the guard too small to keep her eyes from seeing him_.

Grace looked panicky, her eyes jumping between the canisters and the living corpse she guarded. Her hands were shaking. Her neck wobbling as she called something out. Her voice strained and frightened. The words moving too fast, too garbled by dialect for her to understand this time.

Immediately, the bear turned around, gesturing with his hands. Pleading.  _Please._ She knew that word. He wanted Grace to wait.  _He was begging her to wait._

Her mind racing, trying to grasp every thread telling her to be wary. Fearful of what the fates had in store. She was a monster. She did not deserve a second chance.  _Áris would call it punishment. A chance to watch him die. A chance to not only feel the loss, but see it crumble to dust before her._

Like a stablehand trying to calm a horse, the bear was trying to snag her attention. Shaken to the core, trying to undo what had already been done. "Please lady…we have orders. Do not speak to him. You must leave him be."

She was sputtering. "Why is he  _here_?"

He wiped his brow, his voice wooden, repeating his orders by rote. "You must trust Nikolai, lady."

"Is that  _all_  you have to say _,"_ she asked. Turning on him with a ferocity that made him flinch back. "You think a skinned child is bad? Do you have  _any_  idea who you're dealing with…"

" _Yes_ , lady…"

Plagued by his own words, the bear was almost crying now. Copious amounts of sweat staining his shirt, the fabric twisted between shortened fingers, twisted by the life he had lived.  _And she believed him_. A strange, protective anger rooting itself in her breast as she looked upon his face, knowing that once they had both been in the same cage. Both of them scarred by the horror that was chasing her.

He spoke again. Softly, but firm in his answer. "Lady, the only reason I am here is because I  _know_  who I am dealing with." He nodded in encouragement. "…trust Nikolai, my lady. He will help you remember."

She hissed. "I do not  _want_  to remember."

The bear almost dropped his kerchief. "Please take no offence, lady. I only meant to say you are not yourself."

_Not herself..._

Her nails darted through the bars, scratching his cheek before he could leap back. Following him alongside the cage, daring him to come closer. "Would you rather I cut off your toes as well as your fingers again…is  _that_  what you would prefer?"

"Now  _there's_  a telling statement…" A gravely disillusioned snort echoed from across the abbey. Languid even as though he had moved to a point beyond pain. "…and here I was thinking the two of you had never met."

She twisted on her heel. "Lyosha, has it occurred to you that I'm on your side?"

"Forgive me if I don't trust someone who  _enjoys_  cutting people's fingers off."

"I  _don't_  remember doing that."

"Well, apparently,  _he_  remembers, Reinette." He seemed to take it in stride that any sentence coming from her direction would not be starting with an apology. "…which in my book, makes you a lying, traitorous—"

It went on for a spell. His bitterness perhaps the only reason he was still conscious. The few—namely two—of them in the room who could understand Latin wincing and in some cases, raising an eye over his ability to describe her face while referencing certain parts of her anatomy in a derogatory fashion.  _He was still angry. Obviously._

She straightened her shoulders. "Lyosha, what makes you think I had anything to do with this?"

He barked. "Why don't we ask your  _fucking_  husband?"

She almost lost her grip. A sudden anger wrapping around her fists. Narrowing her gaze on what was turning into an enjoyable view.  _Blood-forsaken lycan being tortured on a pillar. That was precisely what she wanted to see right now_. "My  _what?_ "

"You  _heard_  me…"

"And what the  _hell_  would you know about it?" She was standing on her toes, seething past the bear's shoulder, refusing to lose sight of the only bastard who was worth yelling at in this picture.  _Insufferable man._  No longer caring if she found that grain of trust, that sliver of warmth that would only make it worse when they killed him. "…in case you've forgotten, Lyosha, it was  _you_  who decided to bring him into the country with us. Not me.  _You_."

"At least I didn't run off with him," he retorted.

She slapped the bars. "I did  _not_  run off with him," she yelled. Practically screamed it, the bear between them be damned. "I was kidnapped…against my will…and now I am  _just_  as much in this prison as you are."

_Clang!_

Like the rush of birds in flight, the sound echoed into the rafters of the monastery. Her words, her anger, her breath, all of it swept away by the sight of a creature emerging from the shadows.

A face illuminated, the light blinding them all, forcing them to close eyes and raise hands as they cowered before the light. Unable to see the monster who lurked in the shadows. Unable to see until the sight had resolved itself into something unexpected.

One they all had started to ignore.  _One who did not speak Latin…or Russian. One whose mourning had now changed into anger. Instability in the face of order._

Grace, as the vampire had called her. Bulging and putrid, this traitorous pig whose patience had worn thin. She had raised her arm. No longer cowering in misery, but vicious and eager, like a beaten dog before her master. Fingers shaking, teeth sharp as she advanced upon them.

_Light in her hand._

Ripples of black water seeping before her like a vanguard, every drop carried forward by the incline of stone, the curvature that beckoned all that was liquid towards its centre. Enough to set flesh and sinew alight. Enough to reach the ceiling and the walls, once bone had turned to ash.

And yet it did not occur to Reinette to be fearful. For it was absurd, the notion that this woman…this vile, traitorous woman…might be standing in anything but water.

So that in the end, it was Lucian who broke the spell. His eyes shifting from flame to the fuel canister. Sound refusing to come…and then suddenly the monastery echoing with a horrific kind of laughter. As if the world were simply a game gone dreadfully wrong. And he the only creature to see it for it was.


	61. Ashes and Lye

**Chapter LXI: Ashes and Lye**

It took him a moment to hear it. Garish laughter, the effects of his withdrawal still holding him in thrall, causing him to despair over the sound. Reason telling him it had been over eight hours since his last dose. That he had been skinned, stabbed, crucified—that, needless to say, his judgment was affected.  _But he had come here for Sabine. Not to be skinned. Not to be burnt alive._

_Just Sabine._

His thoughts steadying. The laughter snuffed out like a candle. Allowing him to focus his gaze, the timbre of his voice. Giving him the strength to mask it: the exhaustion on his shoulders, the break in his bones.

He would be damned before he let her see it.  _Either of them_. His attention sliding from one to the other, the danger of the oil forcing him to pay attention…finally…to that which he was so keen to ignore. Trying to keep the smile from reaching his face, though the laughter might have been a clue. "Grace Marsden, I presume?"

She blew out her match, letting its charred remains fall to the floor. Another one ready before he'd taken another breath. "I ought to gut you," she said.

"And I ought to sack you," he said with a tired grimace. Smelling her hatred, knowing its source, and determining in that moment that the truth would see him dead. The bulk of this revelation leaving him with a single option.

 _Lie_.

She rubbed her chin. Seeming surprised by the cavalier attitude. But then it was difficult to know how to respond to such an opening. "You really don't know who I am?"

"Should I?"

She lit another match.

_Touché._

He spoke in a rush. "Your name is Grace," he said, keeping his eyes on the flame. "Born in 1830. Employed as a scullery maid by one Charles Andreas Finnegan. At the age of fourteen, you bore him a daughter. In the same year, his death caused the dissolution of the Blackmarks, thereby transferring the entirety of his assets to the Horde."

"Not far off," she said mysteriously. Touching her neck. The face scrunching in thought as her hand lingered over the wound. "You get all that from a bite?"

"And then some," he whispered. Focusing on his pain. Hating with his gaze, wanting to strangle her wretched throat. _Even if he had been trying to taste her memories, the most he would have gotten was grief after such a recent loss. But it paid to slip in a lie when someone thought you smelled of truth._

"What else?"

"You're a traitor." He didn't need two hours of research to tell him that. "You believe your daughter should have benefitted from her father's will, so you began to cleave to Blackmark ideals. Now you hate me for dissolving them."

"Wrong," she said, tracing a path through the fuel at her feet. Like speaking through a fog, the woman's attention more on the flame and the oil. The flame starting to near her fingers. "But I'm a generous woman, sir. You tell me why I ought to gut you…and  _maybe_  I won't drop this match."

Behind her, the rest of the room had finally woken up. Reinette showing her nature, backing away silently to the farthest wall. As far from the dynamite and oil as she could put herself. Ewan showing his fear, even though the smell had not reached them yet. Starting to edge carefully down the length of the abbey towards them.  _Perhaps his best chance for escape._

Which meant keep her talking. _Adrenaline driving a spur into his lungs._  "How many matches do you have left?"

"Four."

"Best out of five?"

She thought about it. Staring at the flame, her eyes callous, but reflecting in grief. The match about to fall…

…and the room suddenly dark again. Her breath visible as his eyes began to adjust. She dropped the charred stick to the floor, shaking a new one from the box. "Four," she said, lighting the next match. Like a merchant throwing dice on the table. "…best out of four…and you missed one."

_So much for fair play._

The moment he gave the correct answer, she would burn him alive.  _So he just had to stall her. Give her three more guesses or a flaming lie. That was all. As long as he made them time-consuming and plausible, he had a chance…_

He tried again. "We'll skip to 1861—you married Private John Simeon Marsden, an infantry-man in the Royal Irish regiment. One can only assume the marriage was agreeable because he not only wed you, but adopted your daughter."

"He died in a raid," she said softly.

"Did I order the raid?"

"No."

The smell of lye was coiling itself around him like fumes.  _They were running out of time_. Ewan working his way from pew to pew. Painfully slow and mopping his brow with every step.

Twenty feet away.

It was just a game.  _Lies or truth, he could win this._

She lowered the match.

"Wait… _wait!_ "

He had reached the point of sounding desperate. "Two more chances," he rasped. "I still have two more chances."

"Then talk."

If he could have backed away, he would have done it. "The raid turned you into a widow. Your husband was in the raid because of the war. You associate me with the war, therefore you blame me for your husband's death."

She stared at him keenly…and then sighed, blowing out the match. "You disappoint me, sir," she said, shaking the box. Readying the next one as though it made no difference to her. "One more chance."

 _She was cornering him._  He swallowed, his throat ragged with every syllable. "Give me a moment to think…"

"Think  _fast_ , sir." A malicious titter escaped her lips as she held the match ready against its box.  _He could let it happen. The manner of death fitting, though only Raze knew how tempting this was for him._  But there were more lives at stake. Not just his own sorry existence but the souls above his head.

He focused on her face instead, trying to visualise what else she wanted him to see.  _What else she was hiding…_

Grace Marsden. Limp brown hair. Scars on her face. Stockish. Pudgy fingers. Her scent formed of the basest of human expressions. Nothing to say where she came from. Only that she was cruel...

... and angry.

_But why?_

Trying to focus his efforts on the reason.  _Keeping his mind from straying to that box of memories he had locked away for his own good._  The pressure making him recoil, making him focus on her fingers instead.  _For the first time, focusing not on the matches, but the actual box she was holding._  The dark shadows between her fingers. The illustration showing a pair of gentlemen lighting their pipes in a storm.

 _Bryant and May's Flaming Fusees._  Specially designed for cigars. His familiarity with the brand causing him to stray further into his thoughts. Trying to speak. Instead finding his lips dry. His throat and lungs struggling to make room for words.

Trying to put together exactly how she could be holding that box, given that he'd spent the last New Year's social compulsively filling in the umbrella, coats, and trousers of both gentlemen with black ink.  _A more than aggravated portion of his conscience now starting to fixate upon the fact that he was about to be burnt alive by his own fucking matches._

She was looking unimpressed. "Is that  _it?_ "

He inhaled with a start.

"No," he said.  _Severe lack of concentration now present on the list of withdrawal symptoms._  His brain sluggish, trying to catch up with his voice. "As a widow, you could have requested an immediate transfer to the nearest green zone. Instead you spent five years working in Dublin—it was there the Blackmarks found you."

His efforts paid off.

The distinct smell of her contempt turning into pride. As though her prowess with Hannah Jacobsen's eye were a mere drop in the ocean. A gift which could have rivalled the eldest among them, if the world had given her a chance.

He took a stab in the dark. "You excelled at scent-masking—became a master of it." His words like teeth on a bone, fiercely trying to scrape out the last of her secrets. "But you needed better equipment. Someone who could give you access to a distillery…"

Her pace around the pillar had increased. Back and forth, vicious like a baited dog.

_Think._

He started talking faster. "You moved to London." Ripples of fuel in her wake, back and forth, starting to spread faster for the movement. "That gave you three years to explore the house, grounds, and catacombs. Your original plan was to kill exiles until the Horde agreed to free Xristo—"

"This was  _never_  about Xristo," she said, laughing with contempt. His breath seizing as she began to turn away.  _Ewan only twelve feet from her back. Frozen like a hare about to be shot._

" _Wait_ ," he yelled, hoarse and clawing for her attention again. He just had to keep her listening. Just a few more seconds. Anything to keep her eyes on him.

The woman actually paused. Wavering on the balls of her heels…and then with a keen step forward, she lit the match. Three steps closer and holding it high, peering into his face as though she still had hope. That somehow he would waver in his resolve.

The need for another lie forcing him to grasp at different straws. "A statement then—your plan was to strike in the heart of the London den," he said. "You set the fire, Andreev took his hostage. But what you did not anticipate was my..."  _Think_. "... my absence."

She snorted. "And why would that matter?"

_Not a good sign._

He was struggling. "My ward, she…" He felt it slipping, the last of his theories faltering in the wake of exhaustion. "…she was never supposed to be in the East Wing. You had to act fast. You tried to take her…but Rena—my guard, she reacted violently. During the affray, your daughter was killed and for that…" He had nothing left, but the flame forced his hand. "…for that, you blame me."

Her expression became pained suddenly. The flame dancing upon her fingers. "Is that your last guess?"

_He had no choice._

"Yes…" He breathed. "…you blame me for Ginny's death."

Croaked was more like.  _But he was lying. She knew he was lying. There was no way Rena would have killed a child._  His lungs moving faster, his eyes fiercely holding her gaze. Hoping against hope that Ewan would make his move, that somehow he would reach the pillar before he burned.

Grace swayed for a moment.

The name of her daughter taking hold of her like a noose. Sorrow, hatred…the cries of a rabid animal coating her skin. Eyes red for the one who had been taken from her….The anger and confusion suddenly giving way to the turmoil underneath.

"Wrong," she said. And just as quickly the match was gone.

Darkness.

The first moments before light could blind. His first instinct to recoil from the oil on the ground. To force himself backwards against the pillar. Gasping for his next breath when he realised there was no heat.

_Still alive._

_He was still alive._

Long enough to see Ewan steal behind a pew when he should have been attacking. Long enough to hear that Grace Marsden had lied as well—that she still had another match in the box shaking in her hand. His own breath shaking as he leaned his head back against the pillar. Trying to find himself in the shock. The silence. The quiet mutters starting to intrude on his peace of mind.

_If only they had been in his head._

But no—like a mad woman circling her tower, Grace Marsden had started praying. The words of a Hail Mary spoken in a chant before she used the length of an arm to wipe her tears. Crossing herself with two fingers as though she needed to seek forgiveness.

"Fifty-six years," she said weakly. Wiping the same arm against her chin. "…fifty-six years, and he just cut her down like she were nothin'…"

He barely heard the rest of the sentence. His capacity to focus after such a near brush with death limited to this latest revelation.  _Fifty-six years since the birth of Ginny. Kolya had killed Ginny, which meant Rena was in the clear_. Both horrific and gratifying, despite the surrounding scent. A scene of hopelessness. A bond broken. The kind of loss that could drive someone mad. A loss so powerful that he nearly felt sorry for her…

…and then the rest fell apart.

His last piece of luck running out as a second scent made its way downwind. Clear as the lye on her hands, causing her to sniff. Once. And then again. Like a bloodhound. Reaching through the air, pinpointing the source of blood, alcohol and sweat.

_Eight feet away._

Ewan.

"You think I can't smell you!" cried Grace brashly. Turning with a frenzied light in her eye, her matchbox brandished like a weapon. Her eyes scouring the broken pews. Her nose raised in fury at the stench of fermented chicken-blood.

The stench of fear oozing from a man who had neither the talent nor the will for subterfuge. Awkwardly, Ewan Saunders crept out from the dark. Tremendous in height, his stubs rising first from behind the closest pew followed by his head. A man who once might have been imposing. Now sheepish and sweating. Cowed by the sound of Grace calling him out.

"You sneakin' on me, Ewan?"

"Never in a million years, Grace." The man stumbled back in his haste. Somehow having the gall to sound hopeful. "Just thought we could talk, see?"

The smell of distrust rose. "Nothin' to talk about…"

He was sweating his hope now. Nervously licking his lips at the forty sticks of dynamite threaded through the foundations of Exile's Quarter. "Thing is, Grace, my…" Like it was something she might have forgotten. "...my wife, she lives in—"

Grace Marsden cut him off with a gruesome sneer. "You think I care about some filthy coven-breeder?"

"No, Grace…" He was nearly in tears. His scent getting weaker. "Just... maybe we should wait for Nikolai?"

"Nikolai ain't here," she spat. Hardened. Like a lost soul trying to free herself of the stone lodged in her throat… "…it's me whose in charge. Me holding the match. So you think of your wife…and you back… _away!_ "

The man cringed, raising his misshapen hands as though she'd struck him, dropping his kerchief in his haste. Shuffling back the way he had come.  _His last hope starting to evaporate with the scent of alcohol._  Grace refusing to leave it there, for she had more sense than he gave her credit.

"Hands on the staircase," she barked after him. "Thas' right, Saunders. Right where I can see you…"

 _Right where they could all see him._  Reinette continuing to watch the whole debacle with barely a flicker of an eyelash. A woman who could watch the world burn as long as she was far from the flames.

So that in that moment, Lucian realised it was time to make his peace with the concept of being burnt alive.  _Not the first time he'd had such a thought, though in hindsight, there was a significant difference between planning a funeral pyre and stepping on one._

And yet to his surprise, Ewan was still struggling against the obvious. Shaking to his core, the man had lowered himself prostrate to the ground, placing his hands on the first step. Trying to strike a chord from afar now. Trying when the rest of them had given up.

" _Please_." The quavering voice was muted by the distance. Like a soldier after he'd stepped on a tripwire. "… _please_  just stick to the plan…"

"There is no plan," the woman snarled.

"But he needs him  _alive_ , Grace…" Ewan was begging her, almost in a panic. "Please... if you kill that man, we will …  _all_ … pay for it …"

"Same as if I light this match," Grace retorted stubbornly. Turning boldly towards the pillar. Tears smudging the dirt on her cheeks and the match held aloft like a standard. As though she had to gear up for it. Her only advantage lying in that blood-forsaken match…

…and still she hesitated.

_The flame unlit._

Lucian's mind starting to wander as he waited for his oblivion. The woman smelling of murder despite her choice to pace rather than act. Tarrying over her kills.  _Mary Parker, gone without a trace. Sarah Henderson, left outside the prisons and covered in lye. Hannah Jacobsen, missing her eye. Presumed dead._  Like a child playing dolls, trying to mimic a world she did not understand. Not just one smell, but a hundred.

His senses starting to itch as it occurred to him how long Grace Marsden had been plotting his demise.  _Fifty-six years._  Like smelling blood on the horizon. The thought shaping into a theory. Shifting from the corner of his mind, twisting and turning through his blood until he began to suspect why she smelled the way that she did.  _The well-painted ship with a rotten keel._

 _Because when push came to shove, how long did it take to kill someone?_  And yet if he were to follow this theory, then he had to be certain. For they were both liars. And the closer they came to her truth, the closer they came to his…

"Did you know Sarah Henderson," he asked, raising his head suddenly. Trying to avoid the desire to grip his chains while there was still silver through his palms.

"No," she scoffed. A portion of his theory proven by how quickly she answered. The gruff demeanour covering a misstep. "Why?"

 _It was hard to explain_ , he realised. Sniffing the air, examining the contours of her face, finally aware of what he was seeing once the mask had been removed. Like the eye of Hannah Jacobsen. The truth hidden by all that was around him. Cruelty. Hatred. The instinct to kill…

…but there was no shame.

Not a single trace of shame in the smell of Grace Marsden. The truth so close now that he could finally see the crack in her mask. The lengths she had gone, honing her craft, holding the facade until it was immutable. Weeding out the last thing that could still connect her to that past. That which was so painful.

_Plausible…_

_…and yet so improbable._

"You know, the absence of a scent can be quite telling," he said cautiously. Thinking if he could be wrong.  _And yet he had it. The reason for her lie so clear now_. Breathing the scent in, trying to take hold…trying to gauge every nuance in case he said the wrong thing. For it would come down to scent.

_His against hers._

Only to find his last advantage somewhat compromised by a sudden change in the distance. Reinette able to sense it before he did.  _Reinette who had been content to watch him burn up until now._  Her eyes following the threat, the aggressive sound of their voices, the language foreign to her save for tone and the occasional word…

…until with a sharp intake of breath, she retreated to a different corner of her cell. Farthest from the staircase this time. Like a ghost watching his back, her jaw jerking towards the ceiling, almost imperceptibly, warning him as she wrapped herself in the shadows. Silent and swift.

_Waiting._

_They'd run out of time._

He spoke fast beneath his breath. His words thrown together with the abruptness of a gambler who had a single die to throw. "Look I  _know_  why you dressed the corpse of Sarah Henderson."

Grace looked stung. The match raised by a shaking hand. "I didn't…" She swallowed again. Uncertainty starting to rare itself in her scent. "…I don't…know what you're talking about."

He squinted. "Don't you?"

"No," she countered.

"Because at first I thought it was Nikolai…"

"Quiet," she ordered.

"But that's not really his style, is it?"

_"Shut up!"_

From afar, he saw Ewan's head swerve in his direction, shock plastered across his face. "What you playing at?"

He could practically feel the other man's eyes boring into his skull. But he kept his eyes on hers.  _They were both masters of scent but there was something to be said for living so many centuries. Experience._

_Something she lacked._

That which no one had had the courage to say out loud before. "I'm just trying to suss out if Grace Marsden has ever killed before…"

Ewan scoffed. As though it were preposterous, this expression that pitied itself for being surrounded by lunatics. "Course she's killed. Do you even know who that woman is?"

"Better than you," he shot back."… her father was a Blackmark, feared by all, known to few, only I think you'll find they deal in clean up this time around, not killing."

It was a tall bet.

But he'd played this game longer than she had. And the hunch, regardless of how tenuous it was, came through for him.

The fire draining out of Grace. And with that, his ability to hate for it meant there was little more than pity to draw his ire. Fuel, fury and matches, when all she wanted was for someone to acknowledge it. Acknowledge the pain she had gone through.

His eyes still following her, his nose finally conscious of the scent. The lie beneath the cracks. "He  _was_  your father, wasn't he?"

She froze.

Stiff as a board…and then she nodded. The tears starting to brim over. Bleak. The match lowered to her side as she turned away suddenly. As though she needed to form it again. The mask that kept her whole. The well-painted ship with a rotten keel…

…and an escape, if he could find the right words. Reaching out his scent. Remorse. Sorrow. Sympathy. So close that he could hear the tremble in her voice. Smell the sweat on her fingers.

The lye.

The truth of Grace Marsden revealing itself with painful clarity. A woman that tarried over her so-called kills, leaving lye-soaked necks and glazed eyes and fanciful notes written in blood. Taking care to cover her tracks with scent-masking and theatrics.  _Using four matches when one would have done. Three corpses when she could have poisoned him with silver shavings so many years ago. Her hatred stemming from a depraved source._

For it was not just Ginny who changed her name—it was  _her_. Grace  _Finnegan_. The first surviving daughter of Charles Andreas Finnegan. Mother to his second child, heir to his fortune, and a victim in more ways than one.

Her wounds soaked with the hatred of fifty-six years. The pain starting to creep into her voice again as she looked cagily at the pillar. Her words coming out as a mumble.

"You think you know," she said bitterly. The words strung together like her nose was running. "…think you can just talk about him. You and your bleeding horde, just talkin' about my family like you know how it was?"

It was the first of the warning signs. The smallest hairs on his neck starting to rise. Her reaction unexpected, forcing him to change his tune before she could sense that he'd started on the wrong foot.

His eye already moving towards the staircase, gauging the distance. He was right that she'd never killed, but she sure as hell smelled like someone about to start.

"You're right, Grace," he said carefully. "I don't know. But if you put that match down, I swear to you, I will listen…"

" _Liar_ ," she cried. Shrill, the word echoing through the abbey as she circled him. Wiping her face against one arm.

He inhaled. Her scent was starting to spike. But they were so close. She just had to put down the match. "Grace, you would smell if I was lying…"

"But that's what you do," she scoffed. Contempt on her tongue, staring at him as though he were filth. Waving her hand as she pointed. "You lie to people. You're a  _liar_."

He felt his throat tighten. Choosing his words…not just his words, but his scent…with precision. "Grace, I am not lying to you."

She didn't answer. Pacing before the pillar.…and then reaching forward. Her scent raring towards him like a vicious beast about to tear into his skull.

_Only a second for her to do it._

The final match suddenly lit and the flame close to his face before he could breathe.

She'd taken hold of his jaw. Forcing his skull against the pillar, forcing one of his eyes closer to the flame.

_Oh yes._

_Her father's daughter, true and true._   _Her scent filled with outrage and raw carnage. So close to following in his footsteps._

"He told me you were coming," she whispered. So close he knew the others could not hear. "Told me to hide in the wall…and not breathe, Gracie, 'cause you'd know I was there. Told me to stay close so you wouldn't catch my scent…"

He felt himself choking. Struggling to breathe, his voice straining from beneath her grip.

"You took him from me," she hissed. Tapping her chest. Fierce as she brandished the flame, the only thing keeping Nikolai from tearing her head off.

 _Four centimetres of match left._  The nausea overwhelming. Any healing he might have done in the last hour was gone. He couldn't even fight back. His arms, his knees weakened by the strain. The lack of oxygen.

"You know what he used to say to me?" Her voice was deafening even as she whispered the words. 'Every house has a secret,' he'd say. 'So don't think you know every nook and cranny just 'cause you take it by force…' "

She was going to break his neck. He could feel the bones cracking. His throat straining to gain purchase.  _His strength gone…_

_…but there was still a chance._

_Scent._

He focused his scent.  _His against hers. His thoughts. His memories_. Focused every fibre of his being on helping her to sense what memory could not. Straining to make her believe through scent alone.  _It was her currency, her way of understanding the world_. Their eyes meeting. Her gaze no longer on the flame, but on his irises.

 _Believe me_ , he thought.

The air waning thin.

Until with a cry, she let go. The match still in her hand, delicate and dying. Tears in her eyes as she backed away from him. Shaking her head, kicking at the fuel. "I heard him gasping," she said. "For  _three_  hours…"

His lungs were starting spasm, sucking in air. Coughing and wheezing, unable to speak without straining the cords of his throat. "Grace, I swear... I had...  _nothing_ …to do with your father's death…"

" _How_  can you say that," she snarled.

 _Two centimetres left_. The shadow starting to stretch across the pews. His eyesight unable to follow it with the light so close. But his instincts telling her to run.  _For bloods' sake, just blow out the match and run._

His last words formed out of the hollow cancer of his soul, the shallow reservoir of truth that could still be found beneath the cracked surface of lies he'd woven around himself.

"Just trust me, Grace," he whispered, trying to see through the light. Even with the pain, the tiredness carving its way through his mind with an axe, he could still see a way through. She just had to trust him. "You are  _not_  a killer—you are a victim. That is who you are. That is why you dressed the corpse of Sarah Henderson. Because you  _cared_  about her dignity…"

"You think I care, do you?" The scent writhed out its cage, that vicious uncouthness borne out of hatred and poverty.  _No control. Her daughter dead and the match about to drop_ … The spit landed on his torso, melding with the fuel. "…after all this, you think I won't  _burn_  you to hell!"

The rest happened too quickly for him to register.  _Time was up_. The flame about to fall…and then only shadows and a breeze. The smell of ashes and lye as the match went out.

Leaving Grace Marsden dead before she hit the ground. Mid-scream, the head rolling into one of the pews. Glazed eyes. The throat muscles torn raggedly, leaving thick globs of blood upon the stones.

He felt sick.

Staring at the head as Kolya picked it up. Coiling the limp hair around his fist and hoisting it up onto his shoulder. His eyes black and the teeth sharp as he smiled. Like a two-headed monster. "It has been one hour, Mr. Itzhak. Will you help me?"

He tried to speak. Shaking for the first time, not from pain or withdrawal, but from…helplessness. The words refusing to come. And Nikolai taking his silence for what it was. Removing a knife from his belt. Warning him of what came next.

He shut his eyes. Trying to ignore the raw sound of a butcher carving through his torso. Nausea threatening to take him before the pain did. The stench of his own vomit…

…and his throat starting to retch.

Memories cascading into his veins, hitting his mind like a punch to the stomach. The dead eyes of Grace Marsden watching him as he gave into the black. Haunted by the sight of Kolya wiping his knife on the back of Grace's body. Her neck covered in blood.

"Another hour then, Mr. Itzhak."

The third hour.

Black.


End file.
